Lord Voldemort and the Intricate Plots
by Cauchy
Summary: Prophecy brings nothing but ruin, and half of a prophecy is even worse. Lord Voldemort is neither fool nor weakling; he vows to break away from the prophecy's accursed magic. He is ready to defeat Albus Dumbledore at his own game. After all, Harry Potter is just a boy. AU, sort of Mentor!Voldemort.
1. The Prophecy

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… born to those who thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…"

Lord Voldemort perched on the edge of his borrowed chair in Titus Yaxley's cluttered office. Ordinarily he preferred to operate from Abraxas Malfoy's home, which was much cleaner, owing to the efforts of a small contingent of house elves, and also more spacious; today, however, Abraxas would be holding a prominent gathering at his manor in celebration of Walpurgis Night, and Voldemort had prudently decided that he would finish more work elsewhere.

At the moment, he was occupied with a spare bit of a parchment on which he had carefully inscribed the known part of the prophecy made, apparently, by Sybill Trelawney several days ago. The first thing he had done after hearing Severus's report was look up the alleged prophet. It had not been too difficult to confirm that she was the great-great-granddaughter of Cassandra Trelawney, celebrated seer and contributor of prophecies and visions. Having accepted Severus's pensieve memory of the event, Voldemort was now fairly certain that the prophecy was genuine.

He was also certain that the second half was vital to its interpretation. The orb containing a recording of the full prophecy was likely already in place in the Department of Mysteries, but Voldemort doubted he would simply be allowed to walk in and request to hear it. Since Sybill Trelawney was still alive, the best method would be to dig the prophecy out of her mind; even though she could not remember it consciously, by pulling the memories of the surrounding events to the fore of her mind, it would be possible to induce her to repeat her prophecy. But Trelawney had been hired by Dumbledore as Hogwarts's divination professor, and Voldemort did not think it would feasible to reach her before the summer holidays; by then, it could be too late.

Even though the prophecy seemed to revolve around a child who would be born at the end of the coming July—the seventh month by the calendar the prophet should be most familiar with—it was entirely possible that events before the birth could set the magical properties of the prophecy into motion. Even then, it would not be impossible to escape the described outcome, but the seer's magic would attempt to guide all knowledgeable participants toward that goal. Voldemort scowled at the thought; perhaps he ought to punish Severus for bringing him potentially disastrous information—had he known nothing of the prophecy's existence, he would be entirely free of its ensnaring power unless another involved party (the prophesised child, likely) knew and believed its contents. At that thought, he reprimanded himself for not immediately considering that possibility before feeling ungrateful toward his loyal servant.

Voldemort set the paper down on a corner of the overflowing desk and pondered whether it would be possible for him to simply ignore the prophecy. It would depend upon whether it was completely self-fulfilling or partially autonomous. That, in turn, depended upon the magical strength of the prophet, though even that did not guarantee anything. Divination as a whole was a terribly tricky subject and Voldemort had stayed away from practicing it to guard himself from the many pitfalls of the art. Now, it seemed, he had no choice but to delve into its intricacies.

Knowing nothing else at present, he decided it would be foolish to ignore the prophecy entirely. Even if it were self-fulfilling, having spent time contemplating it would aid him, he hoped, in avoiding the ultimate failure of creating his own downfall.

He was fairly certain that the first lines indicated that a boy of great power was to be born at the end of this coming July, probably to his enemies, given his express purpose seemed to be to "vanquish the dark lord," though "those who thrice defied him" was irritatingly vague. Voldemort underlined the phrase several times. There were greatly varying levels of defiance, after all, and it was possible that he could have no idea that one of these acts of defiance had occurred. The entire prophecy was from the perspective of the seer, and Voldemort doubted Trelawney received the same news or associated with many of the same people he did.

There was nothing for it. He would have to obtain the rest of the prophecy before he acted. Yet, not acting at all could be a trigger for its fulfillment, though he acknowledged that that was unlikely, as most prophecies involved the subjects actually doing things. Voldemort twirled his quill about in his hand, managing to fleck his face with ink for his efforts. He frowned. Most prophecies also depended on one or more of the subjects knowing the entire contents. Theoretically, the magic would be incomplete or flawed if he acted on only half or less of the prophecy, as long as his foretold "vanquisher" also did not act with knowledge. Given the boy was not yet born, Voldemort thought he had at least several years of guaranteed time to come to a decision.

As it was, a week later, Voldemort found that did not have to do any further analyzing of the troublesome prophecy. It seemed that his enemies had taken it upon themselves to complete his work for him and choose the candidates for vanquisher.

"Longbottom or Potter." he murmured to himself. Neither child had been born yet, of course, but they were confirmed male and had projected birth dates for late July and early August, respectively. Their families had both disappeared quite suddenly from map and memory—they had hidden themselves under the recently developed _fidelius_ charm, undoubtedly, after rendering their residences unplottable. Both families were members of the pesky Order of the Phoenix, and if Dumbledore had shared the contents—or even the existence—of the prophecy with them, then Voldemort knew that one of the children would be the prophesised one. Because it had been recognised, the prophecy's magic would begin to work toward expectation, and in the spirit of simplifying his life, Voldemort decided he might as well believe also that these were his two options. Then he would determine the correct one by his birth date. Because he was still rather uncertain about having been defied, he decided to rely on Dumbledore to have already taken that into account in his selection.

Relying on one's enemies to make correct moves was usually rather risky, but Voldemort trusted Dumbledore well enough on the matter of thoroughness. If Albus Dumbledore was willing to put stock in the prophecy, then Voldemort was willing to simply wait and allow someone else to do all of the research while he worked on improving his own movement.

* * *

A/N: Please read and review. Also, if anyone notices any major errors, especially with something Harry Potter Universe related, please point them out. I've done some research, but probably not enough to be correct all the time. For example, as far as I can tell, Yaxley the death eater doesn't have a first name; I took the liberty of making one up, but if someone knows otherwise, I would be pleased to be informed.


	2. The Final Decision

Lord Voldemort stood before the gate of the Potters' home. It was a quaint, whitewashed cottage near the outskirts of Godric's Hollow, hardly something to be noted even without use of the _fidelius_ charm. Voldemort was not foolish enough to simply open the door and walk onto the property, as he was certain there were a plethora of other wards to hinder the unwelcome. He debated whether he should cast a spell to disengage alarms; he decided against it. In the past, it had been a powerful tactic to strip through wards unnoticed, but that particular invention of his had been in use long enough that he suspected Dumbledore at least had caught on and developed either resistant spells or secondary, extra alarms. If Voldemort wasted time attempting to be subtle, he could inadvertently instead alert the Potters and allow them to escape. That would simply be unacceptable.

After all, he would most likely not be lucky enough to break through the _fidelius_ charm again. Its only real weakness was treachery. Certainly, it was possible to torture the information from the secret keeper, but it would be relatively easy for that person to also be placed under the charm, with the second secret kept by those hidden by the first charm. After that, the system would be nearly infallible, barring idiotic mistakes on the part of the participants.

Voldemort only thanked the current mechanics of the spell, new as it was, that it was impossible for Dumbledore himself to be the secret keeper unless someone else were to cast the spell. At this time the knowledge and skill required to cast the _fidelius_ were so great that it would be infeasible for anyone other than Dumbledore to manage the feat. As far as Lord Voldemort was concerned, anyone other than Albus Dumbledore had at least a chance of being corrupted or enticed. He had not built himself an army of loyal followers through sheer luck, after all. But if his current attempt failed, Voldemort knew that Dumbledore would swiftly move to safeguard against any such repeat attack.

Therefore: failure was not an option now. A detection charm for the wards would be likewise unsafe, as most modern homes guarded against such open attempts. There was, of course, a currently (as far as Voldemort knew) foolproof method of tearing down wards, though it required skill comparable to the sum of casting each one. That was no issue, however; Voldemort had ample skill. It would probably leave him enough time to enter the house and take its occupants by surprise.

"Negate." he murmured, raising his wand and stabbing it into the air before him. Voldemort never used Latin or Greek for his own spells; he found it utterly pointless to have to consult a dictionary in order to name his own invention, and spells worked regardless of what one elected to call them. English was a good reference for a native English speaker. Although, he had not exactly invented this spell—as people had been using variants of it for ages—but he had not found any references to its use in ward breaking. Probably nobody had bothered with such an apparently crude method when so many other more delicate practices were available. Voldemort agreed that negating the magic of wards was probably a moronic thing to do in the face of intellectual pursuit, considering wards themselves were often masterful pieces of art and usually of unknown strength. Ward and curse-breaking was ordinarily employed exclusively in archaeology, after all.

Breaking down modern house wards, however, was hardly dangerous for Lord Voldemort. He felt some heat building up in his wand as its core processed the magic and dissipated it. It absorbed more quickly than it dispersed, but Voldemort was not as of yet concerned; the wood was only pleasantly warm and hardly flesh-searing to the touch.

Once he deemed that a sufficient portion of the wards had been torn apart and converted into ambient magic, Voldemort wasted no time in striking. With a flick of his wand he discharged the excess build-up in its core in the form of a _reducto_ and blasted down the door, following the wake of the spell through the untidy, splintered frame and meeting no resistance. There was an uproar inside and he heard the tail end of a hurried shout.

"…Harry and run! I'll hold him off."

Voldemort did not, in fact, give James Potter enough pause to "hold him off." He gave a deft turn as he entered, dodging a stunner, and sprinted forward. Potter flinched, and a flick of a wand and flash of green light later his body lay prone on the ground. Voldemort glanced about the room; a half-finished game of Exploding Snap was scattered on the low glass table beside two old couches. The self-shuffling deck was still shuffling and Voldemort jumped slightly as four cards exploded at once. There was a clack as something cylindrical rolled off the table onto the floor—Lily Potter's wand. Smiling grimly, Voldemort stalked quietly up the stairs. The doors on the next landing presumably led to the bedrooms, in one of which likely slept infant Harry Potter.

The first door opened to the empty master bedroom. Apparently then, Harry Potter had his own room. Logically, Voldemort tried the next, and was met with resistance; with two well placed vanishing spells he found the way clear and was rewarded with a shrill scream and then the resounding sobs of a child. Lily Potter stood in the centre of the room before a large wooden crib, hands thrown to the side and body leaning backwards in a shielding position. Behind her a broomstick floated next to the open window. Voldemort raised his wand and slashed it above Lily Potter's head. She shrieked again, and seemed almost surprised to find herself unharmed. The broomstick lurched out and the window closed and sealed itself shut, before the curtains drew themselves for good measure. With a sweep of his arm he re-conjured the door and slammed it shut behind him.

Having realised that she was trapped without defence, Lily Potter began yelling in terrified earnest, "Get away from my baby, monster! Get away!"

Voldemort wondered briefly whether she was delirious, or whether Dumbledore had shared with her the contents of the prophecy. Making eye contact and focusing, he managed to briefly sweep her conscious thoughts and discern that she knew of the prophecy, at least—if the way she was cursing it was any indication. He ascertained that she was not actually aware of the precise wording before he pulled himself back to reality; it would not do to lose himself in the panicked depths of the woman's mind. It mattered not; Lord Voldemort had carved a path through the Unspeakables using young Augustus Rookwood, and now he had what he needed.

_"…and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not…"_

Remembering also the promise Severus had extracted from him, Voldemort grimaced before he spoke firmly, "Step aside, silly girl." She shook her head mutely. "Step aside!"

"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry…"

"Step aside."

"Take me! Kill me instead!"

Voldemort briefly wondered if she realised how pointless that would be. There would be no "instead" about it. He lifted his wand to curse her—then he remembered his promise again. A flash of red light. She fell, and he pressed the tip of his wand to the forehead of a tearful baby Potter. He opened his mouth to speak the customary incantation, but paused, thinking furiously. Death was not something to be taken lightly. Death could not be reversed.

_"…and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives…the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…"_

The Dark Lord lowered his wand.

For the first time in weeks, he calmed down to think. The stunned form of Lily Potter crumpled at his feet reminded him that death was not always the only way, though it was the easiest. It reminded him that, in logic puzzles, one ought to take steps that could be reversed, to prevent getting oneself stuck in an unsolvable mire of doom.

Had killing James Potter been a mistake? Voldemort paused and reflected. No, he concluded. It had been inconsequential in the face of the prophecy, the great magical puzzle that ensnared him now. But actually, it was a logic puzzle. Logic was meant to defeat magic; that was something to be remembered. Because even magic was subject to the constraints of the mind that wielded it, and if anything in his mind functioned on the basis of logic—and something had to—then everything must _follow_, that is, function on the basis of logic. It was only _logical_.

A pity that one could not prove logic, since logic was proof's very basis.

The baby sniffled. Lord Voldemort returned his attention to Harry Potter, who now stared at him with wide, innocent eyes.

"Mark him as my equal." Voldemort murmured. That indicated that, were he to kill Harry Potter, he would necessarily have to use the Killing Curse, which made no mark. But why did he have to kill Harry Potter? Because "either must die by the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives."

"Well, that is patently untrue." Lord Voldemort murmured. He was alive, and the infant too was alive, gurgling softly in his crib. Then again, perhaps Trelawney was fond of poetic meanings—"living" could instead refer to living well. Voldemort stared at the baby, who had stood himself up unsteadily and was reaching out at him.

"Da!" Harry Potter cried, drooling. Lord Voldemort gave a little strangled laugh at that—no, the poetic meaning was unlikely.

He shook his head. He was taking the prophecy too seriously, once more. Its magic would only grow stronger if he did so. He could disregard the phrasing entirely. The only problem with that was that the specific section referred not only to him, but also to the baby in the crib. What was to say the boy would not in fact grow up to kill him? Doing the opposite of a prophecy's suggestion in an attempt to circumvent it often triggered a self-fulfilling cycle. Then again, allowing the boy to live was not exactly the opposite of killing the boy.

Death was perfective, while living was durative. There is only one moment of killing the boy, but there are many moments of allowing him to live. The prophecy would remain open until Lord Voldemort killed Harry Potter, Harry Potter killed Lord Voldemort, or either of them died by other means. Undoubtedly, however, it would try its magical best to influence the probabilities toward the first two directions.

"Unbelievable." Voldemort muttered. He had rarely read of such convoluted prophecies. Perhaps he ought to have studied divination much more thoroughly than he had. "Mark him as my equal." he said again, making an effort to focus on the parts of the prophecy that pertained largely to himself.

Was it possible that, if he did not mark Harry Potter and did not kill him, that the prophecy _would_ be voided so simply? Perhaps the later parts followed from the earlier ones.

Or perhaps he should mark Potter as his equal, and then kill him—that would surely fulfil the prophecy.

"But he will have power the Dark Lord knows not." he quoted to himself. Therefore, that could end badly. He looked at the infant and had trouble believing the child had any kind of power, much less something Voldemort did not know of. Perhaps the boy did not have power yet; perhaps he would not have power until Lord Voldemort marked him as an equal. "But what does that mean?"

It was frustrating.

Suddenly, Voldemort became cognizant of the fact that he was agonising over a difficult puzzle in the very centre of enemy territory. Furthermore, all threats had hardly been neutralised. He hissed at himself for his idiocy, and sent an extra stunner at Lily Potter to ensure she did not wake up in the meantime.

Reversible steps, he reminded himself emphatically.

Killing the boy was not reversible. Allowing him to live was, even if the consequences were not—but at least he could still kill the boy later. Probably. That was decided, for now, then.

Removing the boy from the care of Voldemort's enemies would probably not be a hazardous step, at least in the short term. In fact, he did not think Harry Potter would be any kind of threat for at least the next few years as long as Voldemort himself did not do anything to catalyse his own demise. Prophecy might be fairly powerful magic, but even a prophecy could not suddenly create superpowers in babies.

But if he took Harry Potter, what could he do with the boy? Perhaps leave him in an orphanage?

Lord Voldemort reminded himself abruptly of his own upbringing, and how that had turned out. It was hardly a power he knew not, but it could be unhealthy for all parties. Certainly he could not raise the boy himself. Technically, he might be skilled enough—how difficult could raising a child be compared to all manner of intricate rituals, after all? However, he simply did not have the time to give attention to the boy, who could hardly be allowed to grow up to resent him. It was all very vexing.

Then it hit him: house elves. Not having a house, Lord Voldemort did not have house elves. His followers, however, did. His pureblood, traditionalist followers with mansions and legions of magical servants, who would likely not accept having the heir to House Potter, relatively minor house and half-blood heir as the case was, be raised by menials.

Briefly, Voldemort wondered if it would be possible to turn Harry Potter into a house elf. Then he closed his eyes in exasperation at the foolish thought. The intrinsic magic of house elves was undoubtedly a power Lord Voldemort knew not. Well, perhaps he would not go as far as to call it a power, but it was a branch of magic that he, being a human, could not use. Though he also could not imagine being "vanquished" by house elf magic, of all things, it did not do to disregard a possibility, even a slim one.

Lord Voldemort tucked his wand back into its holster and gingerly picked up the infant Potter, who gurgled happily and clutched his robes. "Da!" said Harry Potter. Adjusting the boy to be held with one arm, Voldemort drew his wand again and set the crib on fire. It crackled and burned at an unnatural pace, before it was completely incinerated. He let the fire spread about merrily for a moment, before casting a minor containment ward at Lily Potter so that she would, hopefully, not die after all his efforts.

"Obliviate!" Another flick of his wand and she began to stir. Lord Voldemort clutched the baby Harry Potter tightly and disappeared with a soft _pop_.

* * *

A/N: I am aware that in canon, James Potter did not have his wand at all in the confrontation with Voldemort, but for the sake of AU and tiny probabilistic changes, he managed to grab it on time here. Lily was, however, not so lucky. Anyway, read and review, and please note any mistakes.


	3. Knots and Elves

Once again, Lord Voldemort found himself in an irritatingly cramped space, contemplating the accursed prophecy. This time, he had not even been afforded the use of a real desk or a good quill. In fact, Lord Voldemort was currently sitting on a rickety chair in a muggle motel, hunched over a side table with a generic notepad and pencil in hand. Currently, Lord Voldemort's attention was unfortunately split. The prophecy was as mysterious as ever and now he was burdened with an infant Harry Potter who was, thankfully, sleeping quietly on the absurdly huge bed. Voldemort had, upon escaping the Potter's cottage in Godric's Hollow, immediately thought of indirectly killing the boy. To that end, he had called a fairly inconsequential Death Eater to his side and ordered the man to cast the killing curse. However, the useless moron had been unable to generate even green sparks, and had balked at harming a baby in general; Voldemort had wiped his memory in exasperation before sending him away with a mission to compile information on house elves.

Thankfully, that task, at least, had been no problem for the Death Eater to handle. On the side table lay a thin sheaf of papers from the Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures, Being Division. Apparently, getting one's hands on a house elf was not as easy as it seemed, and required going through a great volume of bureaucracy. Voldemort had, of course, immediately rejected this route and searched for another one.

Thus, beside the information pamphlet and application forms rested a dusty, handwritten tome he had dug out of Abraxas Malfoy's collection, which described the process of binding an elf—there, finally, was an explanation for how the Malfoy family could have over twenty elves serving it at any one time. Of course, Voldemort doubted any Malfoy had recently found a free elf and managed to bind it—once the ritual had been invented and perfected, the remaining free elves had quickly made themselves scarce in order to avoid an unfortunate fate.

Harry Potter's little arms flailed and he made a low cry, and Voldemort froze; the baby calmed and fell back into slumber. The Dark Lord scowled at the child. Perhaps if he tried enough times to kill the boy indirectly, he would be able to drain the prophecy of its magic entirely by overtaxing its power of influence. At this rate, however, he could indirectly harm himself. He had not stopped at the first idiot Death Eater, and had called another, more experienced one to the task. The man had cast _Avada Kedavra_ correctly, as expected, but to Voldemort's consternation, the curse had somehow missed by millimetres. The next attempt at closer range had hit one of the buttons on the boy's shirt and had bounced off dangerously past the man's head and into the wall. At that point, in order to prevent any casualties, Voldemort had not asked the Death Eater to try again and had instead sent him home with altered memories and an expensive bottle of wine that Abraxas had previously tried to bribe him with.

Next, Voldemort had conjectured that it was his presence and knowledge of the prophecy causing problems. To this end he had called Walden Macnair, one of his most violent and base Death Eaters, and simply told him to enter the room with Harry Potter and stay inside for half an hour. Voldemort had then left and read several chapters of the book on elves.

When he returned, Macnair was standing stiffly in a corner, looking rather bewildered and disgusted as the baby Potter drooled on his shoe. Voldemort realized his oversight—he had forgotten to inform Walden Macnair that he was meant to _kill_ the baby, not entertain it. Privately, he suspected his forgetfulness was not a product of random chance at all—or rather, it was, but the sort of highly probable random chance that happened while prophecies were involved.

Convinced at that point that asking someone else to get rid of Harry Potter would not work, Voldemort had then attempted to use an object to do so. Since he supposed that throwing a cursed object at the boy would be equivalent to personally doing the killing, he had instead cursed all manner of interesting toys and scattered them around the room. Hours later, however, Harry Potter had not touched any of the objects and simply sat in their midst, crying his eyes out, before falling asleep.

Realising the futility of his pursuits, Voldemort had found a suitably ordinary motel room and was now attempting to make a more viable plan. Because Voldemort knew the prophecy and was acting with it in mind, consciously or not, Harry Potter would not die by any means other than through Voldemort's own action. "Either must die by the hand of the other."

Voldemort wondered, suddenly, if that meant that he himself was also similarly probabilistically invincible unless the baby somehow killed him. He wanted to dismiss the thought as absurd, but could not help his irrational hope. He forced himself to think more slowly. For what reason would it apply to him? Why did it apply to Harry Potter?

Invincibility applied to Harry Potter because Voldemort believed that Harry Potter was his prophesised vanquisher. If he ceased to believe that, then Harry Potter would just be another boy. However, he could not afford not to believe—if he disregarded the prophecy, then he would have no reason to kill Harry Potter, who was a baby. Attempting to convince himself that he would have considered doing so independently from the prophecy would be deluding himself, and he was fairly certain prophecy magic did not care whether one operated under delusion or clear-headedness. Therefore, if he honestly did not believe that Harry Potter was the prophecy child, he should completely ignore the boy. But if Dumbledore, the recipient (and therefore the one with the default advantage), believed in the prophecy, then Harry Potter would become his vanquisher regardless of what Voldemort did or didn't do.

But no, that was not correct. The prophecy had specifically indicated that he would have to mark the boy as his equal. Surely he could not do that unintentionally? Then again, prophecy was all about belief. If Dumbledore somehow managed to trick himself into genuinely interpreting _any_ action of Voldemort's as fulfilling that statement, then there would be nothing to help it. Therefore, Voldemort could not afford the risk of such a thing happening, and he himself had to put stock in the ridiculous prophecy.

In conclusion, Lord Voldemort desperately needed a wit-sharpening potion and perhaps some tea. Fortunately, the former was a potion below OWL level that he could brew in his sleep, while the latter could be conjured to his taste. Drinking what amounted to an illusion of tea was perhaps somewhat pathetic, but Voldemort was quite talented at transfiguration (something even Albus Dumbledore had been forced to acknowledge, albeit grudgingly), and could perfectly deceive his own senses, which was all he really wanted out of the tea anyway.

Two flicks of his wand and he had his steaming cup, which tided him over for several minutes as he flipped through the book on elves. He vowed that, until he got his wit-sharpening potion, he would not get his mind into an inextricable knot over the prophecy. Actually, that would be an interesting topological exercise, something like metaphysical knot theory…

Voldemort shook his head and attempted to focus again on the elf book, which was much more straightforward than any kind of divination. The actual ritual itself was very simple and even somewhat barbaric, by Voldemort's standards. He would hardly call it a "ritual" at all, except that it required extensive stylised actions and multiple symbols; as with all spells, however, the presence of these accessories was only strictly necessary for the novice, whose imagination and experience were too limited for the purposes of shaping magic.

Actually, Voldemort supposed, his definition would class most witches and wizards, especially purebloods, firmly in the category of "novice." He had always wondered at the lazy pureblood method of using magical symbols. While it was quite true that symbols, especially runes, animals, and gestures, were useful magical aids, it was also absolute folly to rely entirely on them. Even wands, to some extent, were part of this symbol problem. Part an ordinary pureblood with his wand and Voldemort could be assured that the man would be as helpless as a muggle—more helpless, probably, since the muggle has never learned to rely on a stick of wood. The wand _was_ more than a stick of wood, as the core material resonated with and amplified magical results, but for all intents and purposes it was easily possible to do without one and still cast most spells, as long as one could properly believe. Doubt was the magic killer, and confidence was paramount. Unfortunately, most witches and wizards seemed to be under the impression that magic came out of their wand, where in fact it came from the mind and not out of or through anything at all unless one willed it to be so.

It took much less creativity to believe that magic goes through the wand, comes out the end, and hits the target, therefore rendering the effect, than to believe simply that results will happen after drawing power from a magical artefact without enacting any kind of motion whatsoever. This would not be the case, were someone to be raised to believe that anything one imagined was possible. That would be terribly dangerous, however, which was why it was not widely practiced. First of all, the child, after gaining comprehension, would immediately become more proficient than the parent at simple magic, and this "accidental" magic would furthermore be able to infringe on the will of others, because the child's belief is pure, while the beliefs of other witches and wizards are restricted and knotted up into socially safe "spells," complete with incantations, wand movements, and fear of failure.

Voldemort smiled rather severely at that thought as he tossed the elf book back onto the desk. Magic only failed as a result of a lack of belief. However, that did not mean that arrogance guaranteed true success. Most arrogant but unknowledgeable witches and wizards cast laughably weak spells for a very simple reason; they believed that they were capable and that their spells should come out of the end of their wand and do something. Therefore, they were indeed guaranteed to produce the desired effect. However, if they had not performed the spell properly the first time, that is, including focusing on the wand, the spell would be cast without the wand—and forever, after that, would continue to be based on that first success and therefore be cast without the wand. Voldemort thought it was rather funny that these people were very proficient in so-called "wandless magic" but had no idea that they were.

In any case, Voldemort thought that it would be prudent to get himself a house elf by way of a modified "ritual." The idea had intrigued him greatly after he had begun his research, and even if he had not had Harry Potter to procure care for, he likely would have proceeded anyway. A correctly handled house elf was completely loyal to its master and had fairly powerful magic. It was still inferior to that of a wizard because no elf could conjure, have nearly enough willpower to force mental suggestions on a wizard, or directly harm one, but elves were able to apparate through most wards as if they did not exist and some varieties could even change shape.

Loyal servants without uncertain motives were also difficult to come by; if one were to cast the same level of compulsion and binding on a wizard, he would probably die or at best become mostly dysfunctional. The _imperius _curse, annoyingly symbolic as it was of overcoming another's will, was as close as one could get to controlling another human, barring the marionette potion and curse which literally turned people into inanimate puppets (which seemed colossally useless, as one could simply conjure a significantly more durable golem). Lord Voldemort glanced over at Harry Potter and reaffirmed again that, not only was the idea of turning Harry Potter into a house elf ill-advised, it was also impossible.

Having read the chapter detailing the method, Voldemort knew now exactly what the desired results of the house elf binding were supposed to be and what aspects of the ritual he should change. The hardest part, of course, would be finding himself a genuine free elf. He did not want a house elf that had been freed of only the most superficial binding spells by clothes; he wanted an unadulterated, real elf, brownie, or kobold. He doubted there remained a single one in Great Britain. All of them had probably heard about the horrible existence of house elves and fled the island.

The majority of the elf book appeared to deal with capturing elves and sprites, but it was clearly very outdated in that it assumed there were many elves and sprites around to be caught. Voldemort had already skimmed the only section likely to be useful, the one that treated on the notable qualities of each kind of sprite and signs that might indicate its presence. He had already decided that he did not want a brownie, as it appeared most useful for cleaning homes, a purpose for which he did not intend his future house elf. Ordinary elves were usually proficient in basic charms, usually hovering and banishing objects, as well as apparating, and could be taught to wield weapons and wear heavy armour. At this point, Voldemort noted again that the book was very, very outdated. Lastly, kobolds were mischievous and could fly, as well as change their shape almost freely, but could only apparate in their line of sight.

Voldemort concluded that earlier witches and wizards had had the right idea when they had bound mostly elves to serve them; they seemed superior in usefulness to the other "common" sprites. But elves were native to the British Isles, and they had probably all already either been bound or had left the area.

How annoying.

Harry Potter woke suddenly and began bawling. Lord Voldemort had no idea what could be wrong, but was only reminded that he needed his house elf soon, preferably at that very moment. He flicked his wand at the baby, sending it back to sleep, and scowling for a moment as the word "_somnus_" flashed distinctly across his mind. He doubted he would ever be able to completely reverse the flawed thought processes that had been trained into him at Hogwarts.

He also could not keep Harry Potter under a sleeping spell forever. Knowing the accursed prophecy's magic, the boy probably would not die, and might even end up manifesting some sort of ridiculous power, such as the ability to resist all spells. That was not beyond the realm of possibility; people had gained immunities to certain spells before—not every spell, of course, but who knew what this prophecy was capable of? As long as Trelawney was still alive, the prophecy would draw on her until it sucked her dry, which theoretically was not even possible. One could not run out of magic, since having a functioning mind implied that one passively generated it at all times. The only way out of it was to kill the prophet, remove her soul, or in some other way render her either comatose or unable to interact with magic.

Therefore Voldemort needed someone to clandestinely take care of Harry Potter at this very moment. Perhaps he ought to have kidnapped Lily Potter—but no, that certainly would not have ended well. A house elf was still the best idea. If only he could have a temporary, ordinary house elf to do the deed while he looked for a free elf; the Ministry process would certainly take months, however.

Then Voldemort looked at the book again and felt idiotic. He had got the book from Abraxas Malfoy, whose house had an entire legion of elves. Surely if his lord asked to be spared an elf for some time, Abraxas would have no reason to refuse.

With that thought, he vanished the entire lot of Ministry papers and picked up the elf book before apparating away to somewhere in Wiltshire, but precisely before the front walkway of the unplottable Malfoy manor. There was no gate, but there were heavy, formidable wards. Voldemort ran his wand horizontally across the air before him, and, recognizing him, the wards allowed him entrance.

At the door, he was greeted by a rather shocked and overexcited man. Lucius Malfoy had joined his Death Eaters several years ago, following in his father's footsteps, and was an overenthusiastic muggle-hater. For an upright and well-bred pureblood, he was surprisingly vicious and, along with Walden Macnair, was one of the leaders of Voldemort's terror campaign, which served as an excellent distraction to mask the slow political and magical takeover. Voldemort supposed Lucius's position on the Hogwarts Board of Governors also had its uses, though his power there was limited.

"My Lord, you're alive!" said Lucius in lieu of a proper greeting. Lord Voldemort was rather perplexed by this statement of the obvious, and elected to simply watch impassively. Lucius coughed and inclined his head before opening the door further and gesturing for Voldemort to enter.

"And why, pray tell, would I not be alive?"

"People, er, Dumbledore, that is, are saying that you are gone." Lucius mumbled, ducking his head. "Defeated…" and then something that sounded like, "Potterswimble…"

"Speak up, Lucius." Voldemort said impatiently. Never mind that he wanted to make a scathing comment about the trustworthiness of Dumbledore's words over any clear lack of evidence.

"I apologize, my Lord." Lucius said, wasting more time, though more loudly at least, "Dumbledore declared yesterday that the young Potter heir has vanquished you."

"Correct me if I am wrong, Lucius, but the Potter heir is an infant, yes? The same age as your own son, I believe."

"Er, yes, my Lord."

Voldemort said nothing further along those lines, as Lucius seemed to have realized the absurdity of Dumbledore's claim himself, if the pink flush that crept along his pale neck was any indication.

"Of course, Dumbledore is hardly an idiot. Do you know the circumstances surrounding this claim, Lucius?" Voldemort found it incredibly interesting that Dumbledore believed the prophecy had _already_ been fulfilled, despite the lack of the Dark Lord marking anyone and, indeed, the lack of the vanquisher.

"Yes, my Lord." Lucius replied hurriedly, undoubtedly attempting to make up for his blunder, "He announced that, late on Samhain, you entered the Potter home and murdered James Potter, before moving to kill his heir. However, the boy somehow protected himself and his mother and your curse rebounded on you. The boy has disappeared, but it is confirmed that he is still alive, and they are searching for him." There was a pause, and then Lucius added, "Peter Pettigrew has been arrested as an accessory in the murder. They say he betrayed the Potters, somehow."

Voldemort wondered what sort of convoluted reasoning Dumbledore had used to reach his implausible conclusion about the Potter boy. At least Dumbledore had got the part about Wormtail correct. It was no matter, as the man had been a snivelling, pathetic coward anyway, and hadn't known any sensitive information.

"Why does he think I am 'vanquished?'" Voldemort asked Lucius. The man looked rather uneasy.

"Well, as the Potter heir and his mother are still alive, something must have stopped you from killing them." Lucius said carefully, "But this is good. We can strike a great blow by proving Dumbledore wrong."

Voldemort said nothing for a long moment, though he thanked Severus in his mind for having made him make that silly promise. Then, "That is correct. This is good. But the world shall not know that Dumbledore is wrong until it is too late. I am afraid, Lucius, that you and Walden will have to stay away from your… recreational pursuits for awhile. Success may be far nearer than we thought."

"I don't understand, my Lord." Lucius said cautiously. Voldemort glanced back at the man for a moment, disinterested now.

"You will, in time. Now, where is your father?"

Lucius seemed rather disappointed at his inquiry, but answered nonetheless promptly, "In his study, likely."

"Thank you." said Voldemort, before he climbed the ostentatious main spiral staircase to the third floor of the manor and strode past several wide windows that looked out into the garden, still flourishing even in November, and dotted with slowly strutting white peacocks. He turned to the fourth room on his right, whose door was ajar. Abraxas Malfoy was leaning back in his high-backed mahogany chair, undoubtedly layered with cushioning enchantments, pretending to read a book. Voldemort noted that the man's eyes were actually focused on the door, and now on him as he stepped into view.

"Good day, my Lord." Abraxas said, standing up and giving a short bow. Voldemort nodded back.

"Good day, Abraxas. I trust you do not believe in foolish rumours?"

Abraxas immediately grasped his meaning and shook his head slowly. "No, my Lord. There was never any doubt."

"Very good. Now, I do not wish to take you away from your business, but this should be fairly quick. I need a house elf."

"A house elf, my Lord? You know that the Malfoy elves are always available for your use." Abraxas replied quickly.

"I am aware, but I need one bound to me, temporarily." Voldemort clarified. Abraxas frowned.

"Forgive me, my Lord, but, you do not have a house." he said quietly, "And a house elf can only be bound to a house."

Indeed, a house elf that had been subjected to the usual ritual binding could only be bound to a house and not a person. For several reasons, binding a house elf to serve a specific magical location was much safer than binding it to a human, as the house provided a shield for any attempt the elf might use to break free of the magic. Otherwise, the elf could simply kill the human in rebellion, as long as it was crafty enough to resist the compulsion magic. It was, on the other hand, not exactly possible for an elf to kill a house's magic. But an elf that had already been bound by the house ritual would resist conversion.

"That is not strictly true." Voldemort told Abraxas. "But I will need an elf that is resistant to compulsion."

That request should not be too difficult to fulfil. The House of Malfoy had at least twenty house elves at the moment, and the probability that an elf would be able to resist compulsions to an extent was high, because every single elf was subject to compulsions upon compulsions all the time; these compulsions would grow stronger to overcome the will of the elf, but the elf's children would inherit the resistance without inheriting the enchantments, which were always cast at a basic level in order not to impair the elf's development.

"I'm afraid I do not understand." Abraxas said.

"Do you have a young elf who is more disobedient than the others, perhaps?" Voldemort inquired. Abraxas seemed mildly insulted that any elf of the Malfoys could be disobedient, but his hesitation betrayed that it was, indeed, possible. Voldemort knew that the Malfoys did have several very young elves at the moment, since the elves were traditionally allowed to reproduce whenever a new generation of Malfoys began, in order to have fresh servants most loyal to the future heads of house.

"I can ask the elves." Abraxas finally said. "Pokey!"

A house elf with a very long, very pointy noise and copious amounts of fluffy white hair trailing out of its ears appeared with a pop. He was wearing a dirty but neat pillowcase with the Malfoy crest in the center.

"Master calls Pokey?"

Voldemort repeated the question to the elf. Pokey's eyes widened and his expression suddenly melted from bouncy to conflicted. Therefore, there was indeed such a house elf, but Pokey was afraid to possibly betray his co-workers. However, a glare from Abraxas quickly remedied the situation.

"Yes, Master Dark Lord. There is the Dobby. Excuse Pokey!" Pokey's eyes bulged so much that they risked popping out of his head and he twirled around dizzily, before disappearing with a pop and the beginnings of a distraught wail.

Abraxas Malfoy looked rather appalled at his elf's behaviour, but Voldemort held up a hand to forestall any pointless apology. "I hope you would not be adverse to giving Dobby to me, then?"

"Of course not, my Lord. But… are you certain?" Abraxas's fingers were twitching. Voldemort knew that Abraxas had already known about Dobby; for whatever reason, however, he had not wanted to say it himself.

"Abraxas, are you questioning my decision without any situational familiarity?" Voldemort did not mind advice or criticism, but groundless doubt was unacceptable.

Abraxas blanched and bowed again. "I apologize, my Lord. It will not happen again."

"See to it that it does not." Voldemort replied blandly. "So, that house elf."

"Yes, of course, right away. Dobby!" Abraxas spoke the name clearly. For several long moments, nothing happened. Abraxas shot Voldemort an uncertain look. "Yes, you see, this happens sometimes." He cleared his throat, "Dobby!" Then he threw his hands up to his ears. Voldemort followed his example for safety.

There was a deafening CRACK of inexperienced apparition, painful even when muffled, and Voldemort shot Abraxas a dark scowl. The man winced.

"Dobby is here! Dobby is a bad elf. Ahh!" Dobby, a tiny, rather smooth-skinned elf with bright green tennis ball eyes contorted oddly, spun in a circle, and then ran to bash his head on the desk.

"No! Dobby, stop it!" Voldemort suspected that Abraxas couldn't care less about the elf's welfare and was entirely concerned about the rattling Dobby was causing and the fact that several inkwells were inching closer to the edge, below which rested an expensive-looking rug.

"BAD, BAD, BAD DOBBY!" screamed the elf.

"Dobby, stop!" Abraxas shouted. The elf paused for a moment, looking very conflicted. Then it seemed to relax slightly, and glared around the room mistrustfully.

"Bad Master is telling bad Dobby to stop. Dobby is bad, oughtn't stop. Dobby is stopping." muttered Dobby. "Stopping…"

"You see, my Lord…that is why I was concerned." Abraxas said quietly. Voldemort accepted the explanation; Dobby _was_ rather…different, after all.

However, he only said, "Yes, that looks correct. Well, break the binding." When Abraxas only stood there, doing nothing, and Dobby continued twitching and muttering, Voldemort explicated, "Give him clothes."

Abraxas continued to look reluctant, while the elf perked up significantly at these words. He inched closer to Voldemort and stopped his restless actions. Abraxas, meanwhile, seemed to be looking around for some suitable article of clothing. Voldemort wondered at the occasional idiocy of his followers.

"Abraxas, you have a wand." Voldemort flicked his own and conjured a red scarf, which he threw at Abraxas. The clothing one gave to an elf to free it did not have to be real clothing; the entire value of the clothing was symbolic, and therefore it was actually quite possible to free an elf without involving clothes at all—but of course a Malfoy would never consider such a thing proper. Abraxas looked rather abashed and coughed slightly before handing the scarf to Dobby, who grabbed it from him in a violent motion and put it around his neck, clutching at it possessively. Then he jumped up in the air.

"Dobby is FREE!"

* * *

A/N: Um... yeah. Yay, Dobby. That is all.


	4. The Harry Potter Conundrum

Dobby was…interesting. Lord Voldemort could not quite think of a better word to describe the elf. Interesting was an excellent word to apply to anything that was multifaceted and otherwise concisely ineffable. Against all planning and propriety, he had, in the end, kept the elf as a permanent servant, and had even gotten himself a small house, for safer employment of the house elf. He was uncertain whether it would be proper to regret his decision, even now, four years later.

Dobby and Harry Potter were sitting without a care on the cold wooden floor, playing with blocks. Now, one might think that a five-year-old, nearly six now, as he liked to declare at every opportunity, was too old to be playing with such babyish toys. But Harry Potter was not stacking, pushing around, or chewing on the blocks; he was levitating them, albeit with Dobby's enthusiastic assistance. As the elf was extremely skilled at hover charms, Harry Potter had naturally clamoured to learn the trick to making things float, and Dobby had only been too happy to oblige his favourite human.

Voldemort supposed that Dobby must be the freest non-free elf in the country. At first, Voldemort had tried casting his version of the ritual spells on the elf, but to his great surprise, Dobby's resistance to such magic was much stronger than he had expected, and all attempts had slipped off. Instead, Voldemort was forced instead to remove the spell that had been with Dobby since shortly after birth, the one that had caused his erratic but nearly omnipresent desire to "punish" himself, as it had shown itself to be a hazard to everyone present.

Of course, Voldemort was not the Dark Lord for nothing, and he was hardly inexperienced in the art of commanding loyalty. Dobby was still better and more trustworthy than any human servant. For one, Dobby did not have any personal concerns outside of serving Voldemort, something which he could not say of his Death Eaters. Furthermore, the elf was much, much easier to appease than a human. For one galleon a month, a glass of milk every day besides the usual cabbage rations, several sets of hideous but cheap clothing, and minimal polite consideration, Dobby's loyalty was secured, at least nominally.

Voldemort suspected that Dobby was much more intelligent than others of his kind. Perhaps his resistance to compulsions was a factor, but Dobby was also very strong-willed for an elf and seemed to have his own moral convictions, which had apparently been developed independently of any Malfoy elf teachings. This was somewhat annoying, and also what called into question his complete loyalty to Voldemort; the elf had ideals, and it was possible that one day he would put his ideals before his duty to his master. Still, such a possibility was much easier to predict and circumvent than, for example, any given Death Eater's treachery as a result of cowardice, greed, or any other of the mass of possible human motivations.

In any case, as long as Voldemort continued to appear to the elf as if he had the best of intentions for young Harry Potter, Dobby's loyalty was probably secured. Though he had been incredibly mistrustful at first, especially after his moment of freedom had been taken away again, Dobby had still taken an immediate shine to infant Harry Potter, and had cared for him like a brother, despite that he himself was barely older than the boy—of course, house elves also matured much more quickly than humans, and at two years Dobby had at least been adolescent. This arrangement had suited Lord Voldemort very well, as it kept Harry Potter out of his way but still in sight. The so-called vanquisher had, as of yet, not shown any signs of malevolence toward Voldemort or any mysterious power, though he was unusually precocious when it came to magic. Even Voldemort himself had not managed to gain conscious control of his abilities until he had been well over nine years old.

Then again, Voldemort had also been raised in a muggle orphanage to believe that magic either did not exist or was the work of the devil.

In any case, for now, it seemed that Voldemort had rid himself of the prophecy's most obvious effects. Usually, according to the texts he'd perused, prophecies were fairly blatant when in action, so Voldemort hoped that he had circumvented it at least temporarily.

Dumbledore, of course, was still an issue. Being "dead," Voldemort found, was an interesting state of affairs. He hesitated to apply the descriptor to himself—if all went well, Voldemort hoped that he would never be subject to that adjective in reality. Death was something he could not imagine; it was therefore a horror, and his only fear. Magic could not capture or defeat death, but it could avoid it, run from it, indefinitely. That was his name, after all; and it was a powerful symbol. Those who feared his name and believed that he had truly fled the pursuit of death unconsciously managed to disable themselves against him by assuming he was somehow superhuman, to the detriment of their own magic. This worked quite well for Voldemort.

Again, however, Dumbledore was the issue. He knew exactly what Voldemort was trying to do. Always, the man addressed him by his true, despicably common and powerless name. Names were liabilities. Tom Marvolo Riddle was a liability, because with another's name as a symbol of identity, it was possible to do all manner of unsightly things, including stealing an identity and monitoring another's status by a spell. The Ministry had classified such deeds as "dark arts," and for good reason—they were blatant violations of privacy at best, and a clear advantage of powerful wizards over the less talented, but Voldemort doubted Dumbledore would consider basic scrying immoral, at least for use on an enemy. Dumbledore himself was damnably immune to scrying, owing to the cunning of his parents. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was nearly impossible to keep clearly in one's head all at the same time, especially while one was attempting a distracting scrying ritual through a crystal ball, reflective surface, or monitoring instrument.

Voldemort, of course, was, by his very proficiency at magic, always occluding, a sure defence against such magic. Any other wizard but Albus Dumbledore who was to know his name, Tom Marvolo Riddle, would only be making a fool of himself attempting to scry for him. Voldemort was not completely certain that even Dumbledore would be able to, but he knew it would be ill-advised to underestimate his opponent; therefore, he assumed by default that Dumbledore knew at any time at least whether he continued to exist.

That was why he was incredibly perplexed as to why Dumbledore had announced to the world that he had been vanquished, especially without any solid evidence, and indeed, knowing that Voldemort was, in fact, still in existence. Was it really possible the man believed so deeply in the power of prophecy? But Dumbledore was nearly twice as old as Voldemort, and equally serious about understanding magic; surely, he knew much more than Voldemort himself on the subject of divination? Therefore Dumbledore must know that a prophesied outcome was only certain if all parties believed in it. Dumbledore, as the recipient, contributed less power than either of the subjects. Harry Potter was far too young to be interpreting prophecies, and in any case, knew nothing about it.

Voldemort tried to simulate Dumbledore's perspective.

He had heard the prophecy, and had presumably elected to believe in it, since it appeared favourable to him. He knew also that Lord Voldemort knew at least the partial contents, as Severus had been caught spying. Then, he determined the two possible candidates, and waited for Voldemort to make a move. Voldemort chose Harry Potter and managed to find the Potters. He killed James Potter and…

Voldemort considered what Dumbledore knew of him, and supposed that it was likely that Dumbledore assumed he had gone to the house to murder the entire family. Voldemort conceded that he had, at least, planned to kill Harry Potter at first.

…Voldemort killed James Potter but left Lily Potter alive, if impaired—apparently, his _obliviate_, rather rushed and crude as it was, had damaged her mind and left her forever flighty and forgetful, though that had been attributed to the strong magical residue and the smoke from the fire. Furthermore, scrying indicated that Harry Potter also remained alive. To Dumbledore, there would have been no immediately evident reason for Voldemort to have left two people alive, one of them his intended victim, and, combined with the prophecy, Voldemort supposed there was a valid reason to believe infant Potter had somehow vanquished him.

However, scrying should have also indicated that Voldemort was still alive. Voldemort highly doubted that Dumbledore had simply forgotten to check—the man would never have overlooked something so important. But then, how could Voldemort be vanquished, yet alive at the same time?

Voldemort froze as a terrible thought hit him. "Vanquished" implied that he had been incapacitated, but not necessarily that he was dead. Did Dumbledore know of his horcruxes?

Harry Potter giggled loudly and a blue block landed heavily on the desk.

"Lord Vol-de-mort, is no sad." he said. Voldemort glanced at the block and obligingly levitated it back over to the child, whose grammar was appalling, on account of Dobby's unhelpful speech patterns. Voldemort had at least spent some time correcting the boy and teaching him his letters, but the former had been much less successful than the latter, and Harry Potter still spoke like a house elf, though he could read easy children's stories on his own already. At least he could pronounce "Voldemort" properly. Voldemort had trained it into Harry shortly after the boy had learned to address others.

"Do not concern yourself, Harry." he said absently. Voldemort never bothered to speak simply for the child; as far as he was concerned, Harry would learn to understand him either way, eventually.

"What is 'con-cern?'" he heard Harry ask Dobby.

Voldemort reminded himself not to leap to conclusions, especially when it came to Dumbledore. At the same time, he had to acknowledge the possibility that the man could have somehow figured out his method to immortality. Making a horcrux (or horcruxes, in his case) was far from the only method for avoiding death, but to Voldemort, it was the least messy and least debilitating. Of course, he was not yet finished with their creation; he needed his soul in seven pieces for the purpose of symbolizing great power and luck, and that meant he would have to make another. At the moment, however, he was not too concerned about his mortality—after all, even if Dumbledore did know that he had made a horcrux, it was unlikely he would realize that there was more than one, what one or more horcruxes were, and finally, where to find them.

Again, there was also the possibility that Dumbledore did not know of his horcruxes at all. Therefore he had only conjectured that Voldemort had been vanquished on account of circumstantial evidence. But Dumbledore was no fool; the rumour Lucius had heard shortly after Voldemort's visit to the Potters had actually come from an overheard discussion between Arthur Weasley and an auror, probably both members of the Order of the Phoenix. An official announcement had not come out until a week later, and by that time Voldemort had already decided on a planned course of action and had appropriately given instructions to some Death Eaters and completely cut ties to some others, thereby appearing to corroborate Dumbledore's suspicions.

Most of the members of his terrorism campaign had been led to believe he was gone, with the notable exceptions of Lucius Malfoy, Walden Macnair, the three Lestranges, and Severus Snape. The first two had been told the truth, because they had useful Ministry contacts, and the last four, because their loyalty was commendable. In light of the Ministry's much bolder attempts to arrest his followers as soon as they no longer feared his destructive magical wrath, Voldemort had drained the magic from the Dark Mark so thoroughly that all that remained was a small, raised discoloration on the left forearm, as if from a burn, leaving the law enforcement with a much more difficult time, as the Death Eaters had always operated with their magic cloaked and masked. Its most basic properties still remained, but it was no longer a dead giveaway. Unfortunately, those who had been arrested within a month of Voldemort's "death" had not been saved, and were now rotting away in Azkaban, as a break-in without the aid of the Dark Lord was essentially unfathomable.

Igor Karkaroff had also been a damnable traitor, and had given out several names to secure his own freedom. Voldemort would have hunted him down and killed him, passing it off as anger from other Death Eaters at large, but the man had fled back to his home country and, recently, had become a professor at Durmstrang Institute.

Voldemort still wanted to do away with the obviously unreliable coward, but he also knew very well how one could use cowards. He glanced at Harry Potter, who lay on his back while Dobby tickled him. Harry Potter would have to go to Durmstrang, because Voldemort did not trust a child to be able to act well enough to deceive the likes of Dumbledore while under the man's very nose. There was no question that the boy needed to get an ordinary magical education; actually, the boy simply had to be as normal as possible, in case the prophecy cropped up later in an attempt to give Harry Potter a mysterious, unknown power. Because Hogwarts was not available, Durmstrang was the obvious option, as it was the only school that accepted students from all nations—nobody really knew where it was, and it did not have any magical government to regulate it, though it was always up to international standards, as it needed to keep up a good reputation.

Durmstrang was somewhat inferior to Hogwarts when it came to graduating a large number of decently skilled witches and wizards every year, but the institute far surpassed any other at producing great, powerful, and influential people. This was because the professors helped talented and inquisitive students as much as they could, but did not go out of their way to do anything for students who did not desire to learn, which meant that the primary indicator of success was one's willingness to succeed. Whether Harry Potter came out inferior, average, or excellent at Durmstrang did not particularly matter to Voldemort, as long as he fit the mould of some kind of normal magical school graduate.

But Harry Potter, not the boy himself, but the name, still posed a problem. Of course, Dumbledore knew from scrying that Harry Potter was alive and well. He also thought that Harry Potter had done something to vanquish Voldemort, based on the prophecy and Lily Potter's hastily removed memory, which indicated that she had been unconscious for almost the entire encounter, and so had not done something herself. The government was no longer actively searching for Harry Potter, whom most people believed was dead, as scrying was technically illegal, but Voldemort could be sure that Dumbledore, with the emotional backing of Lily Potter, was still trying to find the boy. If Voldemort enrolled Harry James Potter at Durmstrang Institute, it would not be long before Dumbledore discovered the boy, and that could not be allowed to happen. The only thing that would still Dumbledore's efforts would be success—if Harry Potter was found.

And in the worst cases, for Dumbledore, Harry Potter would be found on his eleventh birthday by an automatic Hogwarts letter, or the letter would not be sent, indicating that he was out of the area that Hogwarts served, that was, outside of the British Isles. Either case would be disastrous for Voldemort; Dumbledore would find Harry Potter in the former, while he would know that some trickery had occurred in the latter. Whatever his theory about Harry Potter's disappearance was, Dumbledore knew that no outside magic could have possibly caused Harry Potter to be displaced over such a great distance as to end up out of the country; at most he should have appeared somewhere in the muggle world and been taken to an orphanage, where, unnamed, he could not be viably tracked until his Hogwarts Letter was sent out to his assumed name. A real name, after all, could only go so far; for example, Lord Voldemort would no longer, in fact, receive letters addressed to Tom Marvolo Riddle, because he was accustomed to thinking of himself as Lord Voldemort, which meant that the magic he generated, the beacon for post owls, also identified him as Lord Voldemort.

One could not, however, register at a magical school under an assumed name. Though the acceptance letters were written on enchanted parchment to reflect current conditions, including assumed names and locations at the time the owl delivered the letters, the actual registry of students detected the children through a form of scrying, which meant that anyone under an assumed name would read as "not enrolled," according to the list.

Therefore, Voldemort both needed to ensure that Dumbledore found Harry Potter and that, at the same time, Dumbledore did not find Harry Potter. That seemed summarily impossible, considering those events were by all rights mutually exclusive.

The only option would be to make a fake Harry Potter, and to disguise the real Harry Potter. However, how one might go about doing this was a mystery to Voldemort. Hiding Harry Potter would not be too difficult; subtle glamour enchantments would be enough appearance modification, and his real name could be concealed if he stole somebody else's identity. Stealing identities was very complex magic, but Voldemort was certain it would be possible for him to steal an identity and then give it to Harry.

Making another Harry Potter would be much more problematic. A cauldron-full of polyjuice and impeccable acting might be an option, but it was honestly rather outmoded, and also difficult to execute. Furthermore, it would require something that did not exist—a human being whom Voldemort trusted to carry out such a sensitive task. There was Voldemort himself, of course, but he hardly had the time to spare to go through the horror of school again.

Voldemort paused and suddenly became cognizant of the fact that actually, he was doing absolutely nothing right now. It was rather startling to him that he had managed to grow so lost in his thoughts; such a state of absolute focus was also one of the modes of practicing occlumency, so it was not unprecedented, but, surveying his well-polished, utterly bare desk, Voldemort realised that he really was not busy. He had not truly been busy since he had "died." Of course, he still received Death Eater reports, but two-thirds of those were delivered either by mail or over two-way mirror. None of the operations his subordinates were involved in required his active participation, as the majority of them were political in nature and consisted of slowly passing desirable laws. Already they had managed to restrict the rights of werewolves in the wizarding world even further, thus driving them away from the current government and towards revolution.

The awareness that he himself did not actually contribute anything solid to his movement was somewhat uncomfortable for Voldemort, even though he knew he was necessary, if only as a unifying force. He spoke, and others listened. He stood, and they rallied for action. They gathered around him and he brought out their potential. In that way, he, as a leader, was useful, as a conductor. No member of an orchestra needed the conductor to be able to play his piece well and beautifully—yet, without the conductor, the music produced by the sum of every contributing effort, though equivalent (considering the conductor merely waved a baton about) was simply lacking something. The spirit of the musicians was dampened without a powerful, lively leader.

However, Voldemort could very well remain the leader of the Death Eaters even while he did do something on his own. It felt more correct; power should rightly be obtained by one's own efforts. He had always operated by seeking out further arcane knowledge and continually honing his skill. Idly, he flicked his hand and grasped the familiar, cool contours of his wand, yew, thirteen-and-a-half inches, core of a feather from the mighty phoenix. His wand was a priceless treasure to him. It represented a key to power, to great feats. Without it, he was like his eleven-year-old self, a bitter little boy enamoured with his ability to make things "hurt," but master of nothing.

Of course, that was not entirely true. Voldemort was not dependent on his wand; even wandless, he likely surpassed most ordinary witches and wizards. And even with wand in hand, there was still an echo of that boy in him—there would be, forever. Once he had learned the cruciatus curse, he could never again let it go. There was the culmination of his childish, vindictive glee. Wizards had given it a name and a method, but Lord Voldemort had never cared for such things. One who cast the cruciatus out of an instruction booklet could not hope to inflict the proper level of suffering. It required an entire storehouse of hate and one's very own suffering, brought out deliciously from imagination into reality. That was magic at its purest.

"Up! Up!" Harry Potter squealed. Voldemort glanced to the side and saw, with some surprise, that Dobby was floating in the air, upside down, and apparently on account of Harry. Both boy and elf were laughing joyously, unperturbed by his stare or presence. Voldemort looked at his pale, elegant wand and wondered at the possibilities it represented.

"Great things." he murmured to himself. He still remembered the words Garrick Ollivander had spoken to him on that day that he, a mistrustful orphan of eleven years, stepped into the shop dressed in second hand robes and armed with a string of keywords gleaned from skimming books. Ollivander had put a stop to all of that nonsense. The phoenix feather symbolized power; later, Voldemort had learned that the phoenix feather was capable of channelling twice as much energy at one time as the most durable dragon heartstring, and was therefore usable for realising great feats of magic. The phoenix could see the desires of every heart, but it was neither good nor evil. It cared not for such human concepts. Its song inspired the true of mind and harmed those who did not know themselves, in hopes of awakening them. Voldemort had aspired, then, to be like the phoenix.

"There is no good or evil, only power, and those too weak to seek it." Weak, delusional, blinded. They all described those fools who had every opportunity to become great within their grasp, but instead could not look past the present and the misleading temptations it had to offer. They desired, but they did nothing to attempt to achieve their desires. They saw their personal status always in comparison to those of others. They attempted to become strong by their condescension towards those they perceived as weaker than themselves, instead of by simply growing themselves, their minds or bodies. Those people were the ones most detested and pitied by the phoenix.

That was why Voldemort admired Dumbledore, as much as he hated him as an adversary. Dumbledore had been recognized by the phoenix as someone worthy, someone who had achieved and confronted knowledge of himself. Voldemort was well-aware that he had not yet reached that level; always, he strived to improve his magic, but he knew his imagination and clarity of thought could not be opened to their fullest extent without this recognition of self, this seizure of the power of self-advancement in the face of one's greatest restraint—one's own mind. He could not fathom such an ultimate escape, even for a moment.

Voldemort raised his wand, if only to look at it. Power and self-advancement depended greatly on the self. Others could only move one so far. If he should defeat Dumbledore at this game—thereby striking the morale of those who fancied themselves "just" because they advocated distribution of power among the common, weak, and unlearned; thereby gaining a greater foothold in this sordid competition; thereby coming one step closer to ruling by magic and ruling by might—then he would necessarily have to make a move himself and cease relying on the efforts of others. Others were valuable, because one could certainly not do everything by oneself, but the main strike must be delivered by the mastermind of the operation. Otherwise, the opposition will not be faced with fear or challenge.

So he spoke, softly, almost off-handedly, "I will become Harry Potter." It seemed an appropriate move. The rightful questions now were 'when' and 'how?'

Harry Potter looked up at hearing his name.

"Yes?" he said. Dobby yelped as he fell out of the air, but he managed to right himself before landing on the wooden floor. Harry then seemed to register Voldemort's comment. "But how is you Harry Potter? Harry is Harry Potter. Only one Harry there is." he remarked sagely, in proper elf-English.

"Why don't we trade names?" Voldemort asked the boy, though he was hardly serious about the offer.

Harry wrinkled his little nose. "Harry is not wanting to be Lord Vol-de-mort." he replied. "Harry is being Harry Potter."

"Speak in first person, Potter." Voldemort corrected, scowling. "You're a wizard, not an elf."

"Harry Potter is not knowing Lord Vol-de-mort's meaning." said the boy cheekily. He was smirking in a way that only could have been achieved by spending far more time than was healthy in the company of Lord Voldemort.

"You know exactly what I mean." Voldemort brandished his wand threateningly, and Harry scowled. Recently, Voldemort had taken to casting stinging hexes at the boy whenever he was overly displeased, in an effort to emphasize that he was not Harry's friend, father, or whatever, but in fact a Dark Lord who did not put up with childish nonsense. Actually, Voldemort had had to put up with a large amount of childish nonsense—if anything good had come of it, at least his tolerance for stupidity had increased marginally, as he could not kill, torture, or otherwise fully express his annoyance at the boy for fear of causing a prophecy-related backlash. He especially could not have the boy growing up to hate him, and therefore tended to deal with Harry the same way he dealt with Dobby—a galleon a month, a glass of milk every day, suitable clothing and toys, and minimal polite consideration.

Stinging hexes, however, he allowed himself. He could not let the boy become too rowdy or disrespectful, after all—that would hardly be normal, and besides, Voldemort did not quite have that much self-restraint. Indeed, restraint was not exactly his strongest suit.

"_I_," Harry said after a moment of silence, emphasizing the pronoun greatly, "want noodles."

Voldemort sighed and flicked his wand, and Harry recoiled, rubbing the back of his hand with a huff and a pout.

"Repeat after me. I would like to eat noodles for lunch, please, my Lord." Voldemort instructed. Harry looked mutinous, and opened his mouth widely, undoubtedly ready to say something unflattering, before his eyes darted to Voldemort's wand again and he apparently thought better of it.

With a long-suffering sigh, Harry muttered very quickly, "I like to eat noodles at lunch please m'lord."

Voldemort was unimpressed, but he waved Harry out the door anyway, having had just about his daily quota of "childish nonsense."

"Tend to him, Dobby." he said, returning to his desk, though, given that there was nothing on it, the action was rather pointless.

"Right away, Dark Lord, sir." said the elf, who pointedly refused to call anyone "Master."

"Thank you." Voldemort remembered to say to Dobby, before the elf popped away.

Voldemort sat down and conjured a roll of parchment and a pot of ink, before withdrawing a quill from his pocket. He had always been horrible at imagining up functional quills, and so liked to have a real one, but for speculative notes the other materials were easily conjured. They would disappear after several days, but he could send the imprint of anything he had written to keep itself in his journal. After that, he could recover the information by spilling ink or any coloured liquid on the apparently blank pages and recalling the index he had assigned to that particular set of notes. It was the same mechanism by which he had kept his notes at school from his fifth year at Hogwarts on, after he had discovered the method from an old library book on study tips.

To prevent others from accessing its contents, he had even cast the very same enchantment on his diary; it had later become his first horcrux, though he somewhat regretted placing part of his soul in such a terribly fragile object. There were only so many protective enchantments one could put on something made of paper, and they hardly seemed enough for safeguarding a piece of his soul, though intellectually he knew that the probability of somebody attempting to cast Fiendfyre at or to stab an apparently empty journal with a large, sharp object coated in a highly caustic substance was very low.

"Transferring Identities," Voldemort wrote at the top of the page. He underlined it for good measure as he contemplated what to write next. Then he crossed the words out entirely; headings were pointless. He drew two small circles, labelled them "A" and "B," and connected them with an arrow. Then he scribbled out the labels and called the former "B," "Harry Potter," instead, and sketched a question mark beside the first circle.

"Harry Potter takes an unknown identity." Voldemort wrote "Muggleborn" next to the question mark, and then added "Harold or Henry." He drew another circle for himself and several more arrows. "Lord Voldemort takes the identity of unknown muggleborn named Harold or Henry and gives it to Harry Potter." Voldemort wrote "GIVES" and circled it. It was probably possible, yes, but he only had the beginnings of a conjecture as to how he might go about doing such a thing. Then he idly underlined "Muggleborn," frowning. Finding a muggleborn who was not yet of Hogwarts age would be difficult, and finding one with the proper name would be even worse. Of course, he could forego the similar name entirely, but, knowing the contrariness and plainness of Harry Potter, the boy would either refuse to use another name or simply forget his new one at the worst possible time. "James?" Voldemort added; it was Harry's middle name, after all.

Stealing the identity would not be too difficult. Voldemort would only need to know the target's name and be in close enough proximity to cast the spell, and then he could simply force his will on the victim to take his name. He would also have to somehow inconspicuously kill the unlucky muggleborn in order to ensure that a magical school did not find a child with no name—the owls would go to all children between eleven and twelve years of age who emitted magic, but again, the enrolment list would only accept people's real names, so not getting rid of the victim was out of the question, but Voldemort was hardly inexperienced at murdering and covering up any evidence.

There was a noticeable "pop" of displaced air, and then Dobby appeared, floppy-eared and wide-eyed in its wake, perched on the desk and nose pressed uncomfortably close to Voldemort's face. Thankfully, he was used to the elf's incorrigible antics, and only stiffened slightly.

"Lunch is ready, sir Dark Lord." said Dobby.

"Thank you. I will be right down." Voldemort replied, indicating with a glare that Dobby should disapparate, which the elf did immediately. Scowling at the mess of shapes and scribbles on his parchment, Voldemort flicked his wand and vanished the entire affair without recording it. He might as well get to lunch. He did not operate well on an empty stomach.

Honestly, he wanted noodles too.

* * *

A/N: And identity theft just got real. You all ought to be careful about giving out your full names. Muahaha... In other news, a thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, favorited (what a silly verb), followed, or otherwise interacted with the story! Also, I remind you to point out any errors that annoy you, or complain about errors in general; I do not have a beta, and most of the time I am too lazy to more than cursorily edit what I write.


	5. School

"Harry is so bored," Harry Potter declared, despite that there was nobody around to hear him. Lord Voldemort had gone off on some errand or another—Lord Voldemort never talked to Harry anyway, except to say boring things like, "speak in first person" or "go bother Dobby."

Except right now, Harry couldn't take the advice of the imaginary Lord Voldemort in his head and play with Dobby, because Dobby was making dinner for Rudy and Bella, who were staying the night at Lord Voldemort's house on account of aurors trying to convict sensitive items in their house, or something. How exactly one went about convicting items, or how items could have senses was beyond Harry, but who knew what adults got up to?

"Harry is wanting to go to school," said Harry, looking morosely out the boring, square window onto the boring, square lawn. According to Lord Voldemort, living in the midst of muggles was supposed to be boring, but Harry hardly ever saw a muggle anyway, so he thought that Lord Voldemort had obviously made some kind of mistake. All that ever passed by the street were squirrels and, if Harry was lucky, a stray cat. Harry quite liked cats.

In any case, at school, which was rather far away from the house, there had been a lot of muggles. At school, Harry had learned, first hand, that muggle actually meant someone who didn't have magic—that that was possible confused Harry. Actually, the difference between what was magic and what wasn't magic confused Harry too. Magic was so many very different things—how was he supposed to have known that hovering charms were magic, but remote-control trucks weren't? It was mind-boggling, and Lord Voldemort had been absolutely useless at explaining it properly. So had Dobby, for that matter. But after that incident when he had tried to play hover-and-throw with a muggle boy, Lord Voldemort had taken him away from school and decreed that he would not be going back.

Harry had been very upset at that, and promised he wouldn't ever try to hover a muggle again, but his pleas had fallen on deaf ears and any petulance he'd displayed had only earned him a large number of stinging hexes. And after stinging hexes had stopped hurting much, Lord Voldemort had muttered something about resistance and had started casting, of all things, tickling charms, and occasionally hexes. Through this, Harry had found out that being continuously tickled without recourse was much, much worse than any sharp but quickly-fading pain. Furthermore, the ribbons of purple light were also distracting and creepy. Still, it did not really stop Harry from doing things he wasn't supposed to do, especially when he was bored and stuck in his room.

Since Rudy and Bella were in the house, Harry wasn't allowed to come out, in case they saw him. Lord Voldemort had, as usual, been rather incompetent at explaining why it would be bad if they saw him. As far as Harry knew, Rudy and Bella were just Lord Voldemort's servants, kind of like Dobby and himself. They even had the same kinds of names—Dobby, Harry, and Rudy were all two syllables and ended in "y." Bella was different, but Bella was a girl, so Harry threw her out of the analysis because she was an outlier. Bella was also weird; she liked to skip up and down the halls, singing a song about "rape and pillage," whenever she came to visit and Lord Voldemort wasn't around. Whenever Harry told Lord Voldemort about these antics, he would only sigh and say, "Bella likes decor," or something of the sort, even though, in Harry's opinion, decorations seemed very irrelevant to the matter at hand.

Anyway, Harry did not much like Rudy and Bella, mainly because he couldn't do anything while they were there. Well, he could read, but Harry had enough of reading every day. Besides not being allowed to go to school, Harry still had to learn things, and therefore had to force his way through dry history books, weird manuals about potions, and complicated maths problems that Dobby couldn't help him with. Lord Voldemort could, of course, because Lord Voldemort knew everything, even if he was bad at explaining, but he did not like to be bothered more than once or twice a day, although Harry had learned that if he said, "I" and "my Lord," Lord Voldemort was able to be appeased enough to tolerate a third and, sometimes, even a fourth intrusion.

Lord Voldemort wasn't here, though, and Harry had done all of his maths problems for today, anyway. Recently, he had got more interested in maths, because he had learned of Arithmancy, which involved using numbers to determine all sorts of things, like past or future events and especially probabilities, the likeliness that things would happen. Harry thought that Arithmancy would be very useful to know, and so he had been working on his algebra more diligently than ever before. But that did not mean he wanted to do more problems after having already finished ten today for his assignment. Those had taken him forever, after all.

Except now there was nothing else to do that was fun, unless he broke rules. Briefly, Harry shuddered at the memory of ghostly fingers crawling mercilessly across his skin, but then decided that the consequences did not outweigh the benefits. With a crafty smile and a flick of his finger, he had the window open and jumped out without a care, whooping as he fell and catching himself barely a meter from the ground. Hovering himself had taken ages to learn, but it had been worth ever moment spent. Lord Voldemort had refused to get him a broom, but Harry had vowed that he would fly one way or another, and had pestered Dobby into helping him.

Hovering himself was very different from hovering other things. Instead of only imagining one thing floating, he had to imagine that everything else moved beneath him as he floated—after all, since he relied on his sight the most, he could hardly imagine himself clearly enough to do anything useful, and so had to focus on what he could see, namely his arms, legs, and other objects. Flying for a long time was stressful and dangerous, though, so Harry quickly lighted down on the pavement and made his way to the end of the street, where he turned the corner and paused there, heart thumping loudly in his chest. He had not been discovered yet, anyway.

Harry wasn't often allowed to go out, and whenever he was, he always found himself at some wizarding location like Gringotts or, once, a Weird Sisters concert. Thus, the ordinary, very muggle neighbourhood served as an excellent, novel distraction for him, though, to his disappointment, the other houses were also boringly square and had similarly shaped lawns. There was one house that had no lawn at all, and instead a lot of rocks, but all that had achieved was that Harry managed to trip over the pavement and fall face-first into a rather sharp bed of stones. Wishing he knew how to heal himself like the characters in fantasy stories and, of course, Lord Voldemort did, Harry instead was forced to carry on with a cut on his forehead and in a ruined mood. He considered returning home, but then decided against it; Lord Voldemort would surely find out that he had been out, and Harry wanted to make his trip worth whatever punishment he received.

"Ice cream," he murmured, as a bright yellow van drove slowly past, playing a merry tune. Then Harry remembered that he had not brought any money with him on this unplanned excursion and that, anyway, he only had a couple of galleons from his monthly allowance, and no muggle money to speak of.

"This is boring," Harry concluded, after perhaps five more minutes of walking in a random direction. He had seen nothing but rows upon rows of very similar houses, and would wager that he was fairly lost. Annoyed, he turned around and began attempting to walk back home; already, he was imagining the horrible tickling he would be sure to receive whenever Lord Voldemort came back home. Unfortunately, Dobby never helped Harry break the rules, because he believed they were "reasonable."

But they were so boring… Harry sighed, slouching and shuffling his feet the way Lord Voldemort disliked. Harry was using that adjective an awful lot today. He wondered why he could not seem to gather up interest in something. Books usually did well in that regard, but today he had no patience for such things as reading; at the same time wandering about rows of almost identical houses was hardly any more exciting.

For some reason, his thoughts kept wandering back to school. The little he remembered of it, it was fun, even when it wasn't fun. Of course that seemed like a clear contradiction, but it was not. It held the interest because the entire time one was forced to do something, even if it was something one did not at all want to do. Doing things against one's will was an excellent way to stave off boredom, even if the things being done were boring. How contrary. Harry sighed darkly and spun around aimlessly. Then he saw a lot of grass.

"Huh," he muttered, heading towards what he now identified as a great field, surrounded by a chain-link fence and sporting an appreciable amount of grass, which fascinated Harry; he had thought that grass was some kind of spell people cast on lawns, but apparently not—apparently it really was a plant that grew in other places. Fascinating. Harry's eyes caught on the only readable words in sight—so this was a park. Harry had never seen a park before, but he knew basically what it was meant to be, though his books had not been very clear about it. There were many different kinds of parks, among them amusement parks and play parks and water parks. This one looked like a grass park, if the amount of grass it had inside was any indication.

Harry glanced about to make sure there was not any obvious indication that he was not allowed, before he lunged forward, one foot catching in the middle of the low fence and his momentum bringing him forward and up, where he quickly pushed his other foot off the top metal bar and jumped, landing on the damp grass in a low crouch. He winced at the pain in his left foot; he'd twisted it, again. For some reason, whenever he tried to run or move somewhat quickly, something inevitably got twisted or bruised. He sighed and stood up to dust himself off, when he noticed, rather belatedly, that a few meters from the sign there was an opening in the fence, presumably meant as an entrance.

"Oops," he said, though he did not quite regret his climbing leap; it had been fun and exhilarating, like flying, except more visceral, for he had used his arms and legs and pushed with his body instead of his mind.

"Hey!" someone shouted. Harry whirled about—was he in trouble? Had a muggle seen him vault over the fence? Surely that had not been magic, too, right? Muggles could not be completely inept.

The voice did, indeed, belong to what looked to Harry like a muggle boy. Fortunately, the boy did not look particularly startled or afraid, or any of the other things his books had said happened when muggles saw magic. Therefore Harry concluded he had not, in fact, done any magic.

"Hi," he said, somewhat nervously.

"That was brilliant!" replied the muggle. Harry didn't really see what was so brilliant about vaulting a fence and twisting his ankle. He was _fairly_ certain it was something muggles could do, anyway. Then he noted that the boy seemed younger than him. Maybe only grown muggles could do such things?

"Er, thanks," muttered Harry. The boy nodded enthusiastically.

"Can you show me how to do that? I'm Will, by the way."

Harry blinked slowly, before he nodded. "Er, sure. It's not so hard." _I think_.

So it was that Harry found himself spending a copious amount of time attempting to demonstrate to a small boy the way one put one's foot in the chain links and grabbed the top of the fence, pushing oneself up and over. Unfortunately, Will was much shorter than Harry, and obstinately refused to take the movement one step at a time; instead, he wanted to be able to jump right over a fence nearly as tall as he was. Harry was of the mind that it would be impossible without hovering, which he knew was considered magic, but he let Will try and fall several times anyway to prove his point. Except that Will did not stop trying, even after five failures. Harry was about to tell him off for being thick when he saw something that made his heart pound suddenly with abject fright and his blood freeze in his veins.

Before he could stop himself, he blurted out, "My Lord!" His mind raced frantically, and then he remembered that he had once seen, through the crack of the door, Rudy throwing himself onto the ground as if to duck a blow right before Lord Voldemort had cast the cruciatus. Harry knew what the cruciatus was—he'd heard all about it from Bella's loud ranting from the next room down, where she and Rudy always stayed. Following Rudy's example, Harry tried to lie on the ground, but instead of catching himself he only managed to trip entirely and face-fault into the grass. When he managed to push himself to his knees and glance up, having determined that Rudy's strategy was a horrible defensive move, after all, he saw that Lord Voldemort looked rather perplexed. The expression was gone in another second, though, and he only seemed rather annoyed now. Harry cringed.

"Har—I am sorry, my Lord. But I was so bored!" he said quickly, looking around for a moment—Will was lying on the ground too, but the difference was that he seemed to be unconscious; Lord Voldemort had probably stunned him, since he was a muggle.

Lord Voldemort looked contemplatively at Harry for a moment.

Then, "_Crucio_."

Harry had a moment to be flabbergasted, before there was pain _all over his body,_ and oh, how much worse this was than any stinging or tickling hex. He hissed and rolled around on the grass… and then it was gone, and he was panting madly, except something really wasn't right.

"That's it?" he managed to gasp out. He had been under the impression that the cruciatus curse was extremely awful. Harry still remembered Rudy's tortured screams.

"That's it?" Lord Voldemort repeated, apparently amused. "Impudent child. Would you like to be cruciated at full strength, then? Lord Voldemort promises he can deliver."

Right. Spell strength. Harry shook his head hastily, not even bothering to point out that Lord Voldemort had just spoken in third person, which was supposed to be a bad thing. Harry was about to tell Lord Voldemort that he really was sorry this time, but changed his mind at the last moment and said nothing; he wasn't sorry, actually, and somehow, Lord Voldemort could always tell when people lied, even if they didn't mean to.

"Get up," said Lord Voldemort, and Harry quickly obeyed. Now he thought he understood Rudy's falling tactic again. It was so he didn't fall down and hit his head or something when he was struck with the cruciatus. Harry thought that that made a lot of sense. Speaking of falling down…

"What about Will?" he asked. Lord Voldemort had his bland face on, which probably meant that he had no idea what Harry was talking about, and was going to hex—or cruciate, rather, since Harry had just got an upgrade—him again if he didn't elaborate within five seconds. "Er, the muggle."

"Ah, yes, the muggle." Lord Voldemort looked rather distasteful as he raised his wand. It paused in its trajectory. "What, pray tell, were you doing with a muggle?"

"Er, it wasn't on purpose, my Lord," Harry said quickly, "He just came up to me when he saw me jump over the fence—"

"You did magic again?"

"No! I swear; it was a muggle jump," Harry said. He was sure, this time, too. Lord Voldemort seemed to accept this.

"Go on."

"He just wanted me to show him how to climb over," Harry said. "Don't kill him," he added, nervously. Harry knew Lord Voldemort killed things all the time, sort of like a knight did, except he didn't do it with a sword. Lord Voldemort had killed Harry's father too, and had taken Harry in because his mother was "not properly equipped to care for him." Or, as Harry had translated it, she was dangerously barmy. Harry wasn't quite sure whether he should be angry at Lord Voldemort for killing his father; at least Lord Voldemort had been nice enough to take him in, saving him from an awful fate (Harry had read _Oliver Twist_, and thus knew all about the misfortunes that could befall an orphan or pseudo-orphan), but at the same time, if Lord Voldemort hadn't killed his father, the entire matter would have been irrelevant. But there had probably been a reason, since Lord Voldemort always had an explanation for everything, even if it was a confusing explanation, and besides, Harry was reminded, the muggle, Will, wasn't dead yet, which was the important thing. He watched Lord Voldemort hopefully.

Lord Voldemort seemed to contemplate for awhile. "You are correct," he finally said. "It could cause complications," He pointed his wand at the boy and gave it a casual flick, which Harry supposed meant that a spell had been cast. He glanced dubiously at Will for a few moments before determining that, yes, indeed, the boy was still alive as promised. Lord Voldemort looked somewhat amused. "Only a memory charm."

Harry shrugged sheepishly. "Are Rudy and Bella still there, my Lord?"

"I do not see why they would have left. You were not seen, were you?" Lord Voldemort asked sharply. Harry shook his head.

"No. But it's so boring when I can't go anywhere?" Harry whinged. Lord Voldemort didn't like whinging, he knew, but he could not really help it.

"Is consorting with muggles interesting?"

Harry thought about Will and how silly and annoying the boy had been. The grass park also hadn't been much fun; if he thought about it, it was like a gigantic lawn. So perhaps real grass did not exist after all. He would have to do some research.

"No," Harry conceded. "It was new, though."

"Ah, novelty. You are nine now, are you not?" Lord Voldemort asked. Harry huffed.

"I've been nine."

"Quite. You should begin instruction in German right away."

"Why? That's a language, isn't it?" Harry said. Lord Voldemort looked distinctly unimpressed.

"Yes. It is a language. You must be proficient in time for attending Durmstrang. It had… slipped my mind." He sounded rather chagrined, but his speech did not break his stride. Harry had to jog slightly to keep up.

"What's Durmstrang?" Harry asked. He suddenly became aware that he was asking an awful lot of questions today. He was surprised that Lord Voldemort had actually answered them all; maybe Lord Voldemort secretly liked it when he misbehaved? Harry thought about it, but then quickly revised his assessment. Nobody liked it when things went wrong. Why did Lord Voldemort seem so pleased, then? He glanced at the man and saw him still holding his wand, twirling it about. Clearly, Harry concluded, Lord Voldemort liked casting magic, at least the kind that involved a wand (that was the kind that was easy to distinguish from muggle things). Usually, Harry supposed, Lord Voldemort did not get much of an opportunity to cast interesting magic, like hexes and curses. The classifications of spells had been the first thing Harry had learned in order to help him distinguish magic from not-magic. It hadn't been particularly helpful in that regard, but categorizing Dobby's and Lord Voldemort's spells made for a decent pastime.

"Durmstrang is an institute of magic." But Lord Voldemort was sounding less pleased, now, probably because Harry was asking stupid questions again. Still, Harry thought he could push it a little more.

"That's like school, right?"

"Yes." The answer was clipped, so Harry did not say anything more. Inwardly, though, he was very excited. He would be allowed to go back to school! And even better, it would be a magic school. Surely, nobody would prohibit him from doing magic at a school for magical people? There probably wouldn't be any muggles there to hide from. He wanted to ask Lord Voldemort to make sure, but he knew he had already asked a lot of questions. Then Harry remembered his books. Of course he could just look up Durmstrang in _Places to Be: Notable Wizarding Locations_. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was in there, anyway, and since Durmstrang was a school too, it should be listed as well. He had wanted to ask Lord Voldemort about Hogwarts before, but now he didn't need to.

Harry Potter was going to Durmstrang! Whatever this German thing was that he needed to learn, he would make sure he did it properly so that Lord Voldemort didn't change his mind.

* * *

A/N: Harry is kind of weird. He's getting most of his knowledge from books, Dobby, and occasionally Voldemort, so there are a lot of things he should know but does not, and shouldn't know but does. We'll see how that turns out. Another thank you to readers and reviewers for continued support! And just as a note; even though I am trying to use British English in the story to keep with the setting, I am, in fact, American, and might fail spectacularly.


	6. Words and Ways

Lord Voldemort could not quite believe it, but he was excited to go back to school. Even fifty years later, he hardly missed the tedious homework assignments, the fawning professors, and the idiotic house rivalries, but nothing could compare with the warm, intensely magical atmosphere of the castle of Hogwarts. It was truly a home for magic, for witches and wizards among their own kind. No muggle taint sullied its wondrous halls. Though he would not be teaching there, as would be ideal, he would at least be within its ever-shifting but familiar walls.

That he had a mission was also pleasing. He would not be going to Hogwarts simply to be a student—that would be silly, and nearly unbearable, he would wager—instead, he would be playing a deadly game of deception with Albus Dumbledore. Voldemort doubted he would be in any mortal danger on account of the Headmaster, considering murdering students was frowned upon, but he would certainly have to flee if Dumbledore discovered his deception.

That was why Voldemort was sitting on the snitch-patterned bedspread in Harry's room, watching the boy draw a stem-and-leaf plot with extremely crooked lines. Voldemort frowned; he should have corrected Harry's penmanship earlier, before it had cemented itself into such messiness.

"This die has got to be rigged!" Harry declared indignantly, raising his quill and stabbing it at his plot. Then he pointed the quill at Voldemort, who merely stared at him levelly. "Am I right?" Harry demanded.

"I certainly would not know," Voldemort replied dismissively. "You will have to prove it yourself."

Harry huffed and turned away. Then he paused. "Wait; aren't you trying to act like me? You ought to tell me I'm right, then."

"I ought to, really?" Voldemort asked. Harry twitched.

"Er, well, er…"

"Do not speak that way. It is unbecoming."

"Er!" Harry muttered forcefully, but he quieted afterwards and returned to his arithmancy problem, which was centred on cheating at dice games. Lord Voldemort would know; he had written the problem himself, and, though he had not shown any indication of his knowledge, was anticipating Harry's indignation when the boy managed to prove that, in fact, the die was most likely fair.

Patience was a difficult skill to train. Voldemort had never been particularly patient, but if he was to spend up to seven years deceiving Dumbledore under the man's very nose, he would need to boundlessly multiply his that virtue. Furthermore, he would need to craft a new personality, one that would not cause Dumbledore suspicion. Fooling the Headmaster would be difficult; Dumbledore had easily seen through Tom Riddle's perfect student act, though, to be fair, he had already had a glimpse of Voldemort's true nature at the very beginning. But Lord Voldemort learned well from his mistakes, and would not give Dumbledore any such advantageous indication this time. Fifty years could only have honed Voldemort's skills and allowed Dumbledore to grow complacent.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort said contemplatively. The boy bearing the name glanced up expectantly. "What kinds of people would you associate with?"

Harry shrugged. "Dunno. I haven't met many people, anyway." there was an accusatory note to this statement, but Voldemort ignored it.

"Use your imagination," he said instead. Harry scowled.

"Nice people," he said after a short pause. "Not like you," Voldemort raised his wand threateningly, but Harry wasn't cowed at all, judging by his unimpressed stare. Voldemort glanced at the stick of wood, turning it about in his hand. He supposed he oughtn't corroborate Harry's assessment of his character.

Furthermore, Voldemort noted, his old conjecture about Harry gaining the ability to… resist seemed to be proving itself correct. Harry had acquired resistance to stinging and tickling hexes. He had not simply got used to the effects—the spells had literally become less magically influential on him. Most wizards had the capability of becoming resistant to spells, but Harry was abnormally swift to move towards immunity to harmful magic. Voldemort suspected it had to do with Harry's powerful imagination, which went so far as to fuel an inability to distinguish reliably what was magic from what was not. Harry had got "better" over the years, but at times he still seemed confused.

Voldemort wondered idly if he had inadvertently allowed the boy to be raised in a dangerous manner where he could gain great magical power quickly, but discarded the thought. Harry was hardly capable of any great feat of magic that Lord Voldemort himself could not do in his sleep; that was all that was important. As long as Harry did not manifest any "power the Dark Lord knows not," events should continue to remain safe from the prophecy's insidious influence. Then again, Voldemort wondered if he would even notice Harry having such a power—what if "knows not" did not imply that Voldemort did not himself have this power, but only that Harry Potter did and Voldemort did not know of it? But in that case, the power might as well range from an unstoppable attack to something as idiotic the ability to lick his elbow, and so was pointless to contemplate.

"And not like Bella, either," Harry said. "Like Dobby."

So Harry preferred to associate with a house elf over Bellatrix. Voldemort was not surprised, considering Bella's atrocious lack of decorum and, oftentimes, sanity and coherence. She and Rodolphus had at last managed to ingratiate themselves enough with the Ministry of Magic to remove suspicion from the Lestrange name in relation to the torture of the Longbottoms and therefore no longer require the Dark Lord's hospitality. This had improved Harry's disposition noticeably. The boy had always moped and whinged for days afterwards whenever the Lestranges stayed at the house.

"I see," said Voldemort. "Why do you enjoy Dobby's company?"

Harry hummed under his breath and tugged at his dark hair for a few moments. "Well, he's nice. Er, and helpful."

"Loyal?" Voldemort prompted. Harry nodded.

"He answers questions too. And he likes to play games, and talk to me."

"And would you enjoy my company more if I spoke to you more often?" Voldemort asked.

"No," Harry said immediately. Voldemort wondered if Harry was merely attempting to be contrary, or if he really had become something quite intolerable to the boy. Voldemort did not enjoy being dismissed. From others, he wanted hatred, dislike, fear, or loyalty. Anything else was worthless. But he knew he could not change Harry Potter so easily. The boy had a strong will and was a sensitive matter because of the ridiculous prophecy. Hatred would be an unacceptable liability, anyway. And, Voldemort reminded himself, it was necessary to spend time with Harry in order to observe his habits and build up tolerance to the idiocy of youth.

"And why not?"

"Well, you're boring," Harry said, shrugging. "And mean. I mean… I haven't ever seen you do anything nice."

"You are being atrociously unclear. What would you consider, 'nice?'" Voldemort inquired distastefully. Perhaps, if he managed to act "nice," it would utterly derail Dumbledore's suspicions.

Harry frowned. "Nice is, er, doing things to help other people without wanting anything from them. But that's not it either…"

"Altruism?" Voldemort murmured. "But it seems utterly pointless," he pointed out. Harry scowled at that.

"Well, people like you when you do nice things. Like I said."

"And is wanting others to like you not also an ulterior motive?" Voldemort asked dubiously.

Harry growled in frustration and stabbed his quill into his paper before tossing it away. "Well, yes. But you don't act nice just to make people like you. You do it because… because it's the right thing to do."

The right thing to do. Voldemort rather loathed that expression. It had very nearly no effective meaning. Firstly, people's definitions of "right" varied, and sometimes to such extents that they did not at all coincide. The word was quite simply too vague to be useful, never mind that Voldemort did not believe in common morality.

Then again, Harry Potter might have a point. After all, if Voldemort wanted to be Harry Potter, he would need to assume the boy's perceptions. If there was anything he had learned from observing Harry, it was that he and the boy were vastly different. Somehow, Voldemort doubted that any level of indoctrination he attempted to apply to Harry now would be effective in changing his worldview; at best, it would perhaps inure Voldemort from any thought of betrayal by Harry. The boy would still retain his interesting outlook, however.

And Voldemort would allow him to keep it, if only because he did not know how to remove it, short of use of threatening action or killing Harry entirely, both of which were currently impermissible. But it was extremely important that he learned the way Harry Potter thought. There would certainly be no power he knew not, then.

"What, exactly, are right things to do?" he asked.

Harry pursed his lips and made an irritating filler noise. Voldemort wondered if he would also need to colour his speech with such irrelevant utterances in order to seem appropriately young. But young did not always imply uncouth, did it? Perhaps it ought to, with Harry. Voldemort supposed that such speech patterns would make him less conspicuous. "Er…" he murmured under his breath experimentally. It sounded hideous in his hollow, high voice, and he pressed his lips together in dissatisfaction. Harry glanced at him oddly for a moment.

"Well," Harry began, "doing helpful things, like helping people up when they fall or telling them nice things… er, compliments. And saying 'please' and 'thank you.'"

Voldemort snorted. "Basic courtesies, of course. In truth, I do understand how to make others like me… adore and worship me, even. But Dumbledore has always been suspicious of me, despite that. What is it that he sees?"

Harry seemed rather perplexed, now. "Well, I still don't like you," he added petulantly, "So you're probably doing something wrong."

Voldemort considered Harry for a moment. Perhaps the boy had a point, but what could he possibly be doing incorrectly? In all other respects he met or approached perfection. "Do you truly dislike me?" he voiced suddenly, contemplating. "If Dumbledore were to ask you for all of my secrets, would you tell him?"

"Well I don't know any of your secrets," Harry pointed out, but Voldemort could see that he was merely buying thinking time. He waited, and though he felt the stirrings of impatience, he crushed them ruthlessly. Wait and listen; he needed to cultivate those abilities. "But no. I guess not," Harry admitted.

That admittance was surprisingly reassuring. From anyone else, Voldemort would have either assumed the denial a product of fanatical loyalty or of fear of retribution. But even without employing legilimency, he could accept Harry's response as the truth, for Harry did not fear him and had no reason to lie. Voldemort knew that, because of his leniency in regard to the boy's development and actions, a result of his uncertainty about the prophecy, Harry had grown up accustomed, for lack of a better term, to his nearby presence. It was somewhat troubling, conceptually, but Voldemort supposed it did him no harm in the present moment. Harry Potter was an interesting experiment, anyway.

"But that doesn't mean I like you," Harry added, "I've never met Dumbledore, anyway, so of course I wouldn't tell him anything."

Voldemort supposed that was logical, though Harry's cumulative insolence was grating on his nerves somewhat again. Patience, he reminded himself. Tolerance. Lord Voldemort did not have weaknesses. He would not abide by them, and he would certainly not let them cause him to prematurely commit an error in his game with Dumbledore. Just as he had trained himself in all manner of magic, he was now training himself further in the mundane art of rendering himself appealing to others, and to Dumbledore. It may have been fifty years since he had last had to do such a thing, but Voldemort was nothing if not determined.

He asked, "You still claim to dislike me. Very well. If you could live anywhere else, where would it be?" He needed concrete examples.

Harry's face twisted up reluctantly at that. He cast his eyes about the room and fiddled with the edge of his parchment until it tore under his grip and he came once more to himself. "Oh," he murmured, "I… I guess I don't know," He returned his gaze contemplatively to Voldemort. "Maybe you're all right," he admitted. Voldemort found the answer quite unsatisfactory. Why did the boy continue to vacillate? Harry was aggravatingly difficult to comprehend.

In any case, "all right" was probably a descriptor that no one had ever before applied to Voldemort. Harry Potter was a unique case, and Voldemort supposed it was fitting that the boy would be a source of many firsts, as irritating as they were.

"I mean, I'd like a mum and dad," Harry added, "but no one in stories ever has parents anyway. So I can't complain."

Privately, Voldemort thought that the fact that one's life resembled literature was poor evidence for normality or grounds for satisfaction. He said nothing to that effect, however.

Instead, he replied, "All right then. What would you…how do you imagine your parents?" He had been about to ask Harry what he wanted his parents to be like, but Voldemort knew the boy well enough to understand that Harry would respond at best noncommittally or evasively to such phrasing, because he would feel uncomfortable demanding anything from disadvantaged (in this case, dead) people. Voldemort had seen this odd phenomenon many times and in all forms. Once, Harry had hovered about Dobby incessantly when the elf had accidentally cracked open his skull falling off the side of the house, which Voldemort had coated liberally with magic-suppressing wards. Harry had angrily prohibited Voldemort from ordering Dobby to do anything for a week until the elf was "feeling better," despite that Voldemort had already cast all conceivably requisite healing spells. In return, Voldemort had made Harry do all of the cooking and cleaning; even that had not deterred the stubborn boy, however, and had only resulted in Voldemort abiding by a week of subpar food.

"Well, I bet my dad had a lot of friends. He was funny and nice. He would have tried to protect people and stand up for his beliefs," Harry said after some thought. Voldemort marvelled at the sheer disparity between Harry's picture of his father and his own imaginings as a child. Voldemort had always imagined that his father was a wealthy noble, and later a powerful and gifted wizard of ancient lineage. In short, he had never focused on the person himself, but instead what he might represent—all that would be beneficial and bring a young Tom Riddle out of poverty, contemptibility, and anonymity. Harry, however, had described his ideal father purely in terms of personality. Voldemort noted the contrast carefully.

"I see," he murmured. He thought that, perhaps, he had found a key to appearing benign to Dumbledore. Voldemort had no doubt that Harry resembled the sort of quintessential "good person" Albus Dumbledore would extol. Harry Potter judged people primarily on the scale of "niceness." If Voldemort remembered correctly, the boy had used the term several times during the conversation. Voldemort clearly did not associate with people on account of them being nice. He looked at their usefulness (which was of course the most logical method). "Nice" people were, of course, often very valuable, if one could gain their loyalty, but they represented only one aspect of usefulness. Voldemort had just as much use for any other kind of person, barring idiocy and incompetency.

The fact that Harry Potter sat before him in reasonably good health was a testimony to that. Voldemort did not waste what opportunity he was given. Here was his prophesised foe, holding a reasonably casual conversation with him and without an inkling of his own role in the greater scheme. At first, Voldemort had only wanted some way of safely dealing with the boy, but he had realised now that by his mere existence, Harry was contributing something to Voldemort's cause; Voldemort found that state of things quite acceptable.

In any case, Voldemort, pretending to be Harry Potter, would need to recognise and value people by their personality instead of their skills. That was certainly a vague directive, but it was something to work off that would aid in misleading Dumbledore.

"What of your mother?" Voldemort prompted Harry. The boy shrugged.

"I dunno," he muttered. "I mean, she's alive, right?"

"You have never met her, however," Voldemort pointed out, but noting Harry's scowl and the fact that the boy had rested his elbow on the desk, thus smearing his robe sleeve with ink from his assignment, without noticing, Voldemort decided not to pursue the topic, as it was not important. Instead, he redirected the conversation immediately back to general questions, "Do you have any preference for a name?"

"What are you talking about?" Harry dragged his arm and suddenly seemed to notice that he was severely smudging his work. He hastily separated his sleeve from the parchment and held his limb up to dry.

"If you could have any name, what would it be?"

Harry held out his sleeve. "I don't know. How do I clean this? And there's nothing wrong with just Harry. Besides my Lord, is Lord Voldemort actually your name?"

"_Tergeo_," said Voldemort, flicking his wand several times. The ink stains stripped themselves off. "Just Harry, then? I am Lord Voldemort. Nothing more or less."

Harry scowled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that your question was invalid," Voldemort said blandly. "There is no 'actually' about a name. I will procure a new name for you in time for Durmstrang, and you will give me yours. Is your application finished?"

Harry's scowl deepened. "I'll finish it tomorrow."

"I had better have it in my hand tomorrow, then."

"Yes, my Lord," Harry replied with an exaggeratedly high voice and an abominable interpretation of groveling, ruined further by the smirk plastered to his face. Then he righted himself. "Why are you going to pretend to be me anyway?"

"You have asked that countless times already," Voldemort replied, displeased at the prospect of repeating his answer. "Tell yourself."

"Fine," Harry muttered, wrinkling his nose. "You need to infiltrate Hogwarts to get rid of Dumbledore's influence and reeducate people where it matters."

Voldemort did nothing. Harry huffed. "You're supposed to agree that I'm right," he added. "That's what nice people do. Especially when I'm right."

"Very good, Harry," Voldemort returned, managing to twist contempt, amusement, and irritation into the words without so much as cracking a sneer. Harry gained a rather bemused expression. Then he hummed loudly.

"Why am I so important?" he asked, suddenly serious. Voldemort narrowed his eyes.

"You vanquished me," he told Harry, whose expression changed to match his.

"No I didn't. Not actually." After a pause, he added, "I couldn't. I'm just Harry. You're all-powerful."

"Omnipotent," Voldemort said, feeling pleased. "Nearly, anyway," he admitted, thinking fleetingly of death as Harry repeated the word with interest. He would need one more horcrux before he felt entirely safe. "It does not matter. I appear to have been defeated by you, so Dumbledore is interested in Harry Potter."

Harry still looked dubious. "Why would anyone believe it, anyway?" he demanded. "I was a baby, right? That doesn't make any sense. And how come I'm not dead?"

Voldemort tilted his head with some interest. "Why such a question? Lord Voldemort takes what is useful to him and destroys all that opposes him."

"Third person," Harry interjected, but Voldemort ignored him.

"…As for Dumbledore… Dumbledore may have mastered his will, but that only means he relies too much on his own rightness."

Harry snorted. "I thought Lord Voldemort was right all the time too."

Voldemort narrowed his eyes at the perceived insult, but then relaxed and waved his hand. "Lord Voldemort is powerful. It doesn't matter if he is right," he replied equitably.

"Ha. Third person again," Harry said cheekily. Voldemort continued to ignore this particular category of aside. He watched the boy and waited for him to say something else, but Harry only flushed and turned back to his thoroughly smudged work, grasping around for his quill and failing to find it.

Voldemort thought again of the upcoming mess of names. He wondered if he should really bother going to the trouble of finding somebody named "Harry" or a variation thereof to steal a name from. If he gave Harry any other name, the boy would still be unable to change it.

But he would try, Voldemort noted. Harry was stubborn and imaginative. He would do his best to "accidentally" forget his name and eventually do something highly suspicious. Voldemort could not afford that kind of petty disobedience causing any trouble. For a moment, he again regretted that Harry Potter was such a delicate matter when it came to acceptable methods of discipline. Voldemort needed Harry's apparent conscience to work towards his goals, not against them. He would have to accept the risk of small problems, but he could mitigate that risk with some minimal extra effort.

Perhaps, however, he should do additional preliminary research on the matter of having two names. Voldemort had already worked mostly through the convoluted theory of giving somebody's name to Harry Potter, and would certainly be able to do it in the year before they would attend school, but he had not yet thought of himself—an obvious possible issue suddenly occurred to him.

If he took somebody else's real name, it would leave him with two magical names. He would, theoretically, be able to use either name for all official magical purposes, including the signing of contracts and matriculation at a magical institute, but if anybody used a device for detecting and verifying magical names on him, it was most likely that both of the names would appear, or one of them at random, which was almost as undesirable. Given that such devices were highly regulated and difficult to create, Voldemort would not ordinarily (if one ordinarily went about stealing names) be worried, but there was no way for him to guarantee that he would not be exposed to one early on.

After all, if he was supposed to be Harry Potter, questions would arise as to how Dumbledore had been unable to find him by tracking his mail. The real answer, of course, was that Harry Potter was behind a heavy mail ward, but as that was an unviable excuse for use in deception, the only other possibility was that he had not known that his name was Harry Potter.

That meant that the Hogwarts letter was supposed to reach someone whose perceived name was not Harry Potter. Voldemort would have no problem altering the appropriate details on the envelope itself, but somebody would have to tell "Harry Potter" that his assumed name was not his magical name, and a test would be conducted to determine who he was. As the plan was now, that test would reveal that he was both Harry Potter and Tom Marvolo Riddle.

This projected result appeared fairly disastrous, so Voldemort was now plotting to get around it. Then his head snapped up in instinctive reaction to a loud, indignant, "What!?"

Harry Potter's recently reclaimed quill flew out of his hand and stuck itself into the carpet as he stood up awkwardly against his chair to shake his fist angrily at his parchment, undoubtedly incensed at discovering that the die in the problem was not rigged after all.

Then he turned around to glare accusingly at Voldemort, before suddenly appearing uncomfortable. Voldemort continued to watch him in silence. Such misleading problems were always entertaining to give out. People always expended an inordinate amount of effort trying to prove something that was false. Voldemort paused at this thought; offering misleading information was always a good way to derail one's opponents.

"Why are you just staring at me?" Harry demanded.

Voldemort stood up. "I've just thought of something," he said, walking out of the room and leaving behind a bemused and somewhat irritated boy

* * *

A/N: I know it's been a long time and that the chapter is comparatively short, given the wait. I blame school. What for do I require an education? _Pff_. Anyway, thank you, my readers and reviewers, for your continued existence. Next chapter: Durmstrang! I hope. Watch me fail at everything.


	7. Novel Undertakings

"Howard Branch?" Harry cried in horror, "What kind of name is Howard Branch? It sounds like a bank."

"It's your name." Lord Voldemort replied curtly. "Howard Edmond Branch." he revised, with emphasis. Harry was of the opinion that Lord Voldemort was enjoying himself a little too much.

"No it's not!" Harry insisted. He had known that he was getting a new name to disguise himself, but he remembered distinctly having requested that his first name not change. Of course Lord Voldemort didn't listen to him all or even most of the time, but Harry had really thought he would when it came to something as important as a name.

Lord Voldemort stared at him for a few moments before saying, "You can, of course, continue to go by Harry."

Harry made a face. That wasn't what he had meant. "Harry isn't a nickname for Howard, though. That's odd!"

Lord Voldemort waved a hand dismissively. It was the hand with his wand. Harry followed the movement with interest, remembering that he was going to get his own wand today. The thought cheered him up a bit. "Odd or not, it is now your name. Make the best of it."

Harry scowled at Lord Voldemort's back as the man exited the room. There was a periodic soft thumping sound after that that told Harry that the Dark Lord was going down the stairs.

"Howard Branch." Harry said again, wrinkling his nose. What an awful name. "Harry Branch." he tried experimentally. It simply did not sound as good as "Harry Potter." Harry groaned in frustration and threw himself onto his bed, rolling around in annoyance and sticking his face into the wrinkled image of a snitch on a grey background. The animated wings fluttered ineffectually.

After some contemplation, which involved grinding his nose into his duvet until it was difficult to breathe, Harry decided that maybe Howard Branch wasn't such a horrible name after all, and that he could always just introduce himself as "Harry" and not let the other parts ever come up. It was only important that he didn't mess up and say "Harry Potter." He would have done it just to spite Lord Voldemort, but Harry wasn't stupid; if somebody figured out who he was, who knew what sorts of horrors would befall him? Lord Voldemort was nasty and unexciting, but at least Harry knew fairly well how to get what he wanted and live comfortably with him. It had been a year since he had last been cruciated, in fact, though Harry suspected that was more on account of Lord Voldemort not wanting him to become immune to that curse too. In any case, Harry didn't at all relish the thought of going out into some kind of hostile unknown place to get interrogated by people who hated Lord Voldemort.

From what Harry had gleaned from the Daily Prophet, boring rag as it was, there were a lot of people who hated Lord Voldemort. Harry didn't quite see what there was to hate about the man; he was an impatient, unkind git, but that could be attributed to his adultness. At least Lord Voldemort had a sense of humour and didn't have many rules (the only one that bothered Harry was the prohibition on leaving the house). Harry had, of course, read all about people who had bedtimes, did hard chores, and either had nothing to eat or were forced to eat broccoli. All of that sounded quite awful.

Having decided that he was fairly well off after all, Harry rolled over, sat up, and leaned over to grab his Durmstrang orientation pamphlet from his desk. He had been very excited to be accepted into Durmstrang—not that the school rejected many people, but there _were_ special cases—but he had not been so stoked to read the boring, hundred-page pamphlet that included the school rules. Still, he didn't need one of those it's-for-your-own-good lectures from Lord Voldemort (or worse, Dobby, for there was something wrong with being told off by somebody half his height) to know that it would be wise to read it before he went stumbling in and made a fool of himself on the first day, which was, incidentally, tomorrow, meaning that Harry had already slacked off.

Part of Harry's reluctance stemmed from his unfortunate incompetence at German. Perhaps it would not be fair to call it incompetence, exactly—Harry was, in fact, literate enough to read the pamphlet and understand it for the most part—but he had not taken to the wizarding language regimen well at all. Normally, it would take years to master a language; a wizard was supposed to be able to do it in one, provided he put in his full effort. Unfortunately, the magic had not worked out for Harry.

There was no single "language learning spell" or something so convenient. Instead, the wizarding language regimen included a dozen spells, a large quantity of five different potions, several enchanted aids, and a pensieve, and required wholehearted dedication. It was being improved all the time. According to the research Harry had done in a vain attempt to make it more effective on himself, Bartemius Crouch, head of the English DMLE, had used it to learn over a hundred languages, was still using it with great results, and had published the last sixteen improved versions of it.

The greatest benefit of it was that it allowed someone to learn up to twenty languages simultaneously without getting confused or losing effectiveness—theoretically, anyway, though so far it had only worked for Bartemius Crouch the language super-genius. Even Lord Voldemort had only managed six; Harry had asked.

Of course, six was still a lot better than one and a half. Harry was still sore after having discovered that his tendency to build up resistance to spells could be _bad_ for him. The language regimen had started out all right. Harry had quaffed a wit-sharpening potion, invigoration draught, and memory potion, and had felt suddenly incredibly alert and ready to learn. Then he had cracked open the textbook and attempted, with decent results, to internalize a long list of nouns and verbs. The next day, he had taken those same potions again and had studied the rudiments of grammar, before learning to string words into sentences. The process had continued on that vein for about a month, during which Harry was confident he would be proficient at German in no time—the memory potion, along with some rudimentary training in occlumency from Lord Voldemort and frequent usage of the pensieve to compound the memory effects, had made it possible for him to remember all of the things he had learned before without any review (unless one counted the pensieve). Eventually, once he understood the language more intuitively, he would be able to use it without the aid of the potion.

The process had been very effective at first, enough that Lord Voldemort had disapproved of Harry using all of those potions daily (it was certainly not cheap, even if Lord Voldemort had a potion's master at his disposal) for learning just a single language. Therefore, as an "experiment," or so he claimed, Lord Voldemort had begun teaching Harry Parseltongue.

To Harry's surprise, Parseltongue had been very easy to learn with the aid of the memory potion. The only hard part was the accent—humans were not made for hissing, if one disregarded Lord Voldemort's natural ability to hiss exactly like a real magical snake. Since Parseltongue was a magical ability more than a language, it did not actually have a grammar. One was able to transfer one's intentions through the use of magic. Harry and Lord Voldemort had found out that that meant Harry could speak Parseltongue well enough that Lord Voldemort or a magical snake could understand it, but could only properly understand it in return if the meaning of the sentence was obvious enough. Since Lord Voldemort spoke Parseltongue with English grammar, Harry could understand him most of the time; real snakes were never so obliging, however, and in any case, Harry could not do any of the interesting snake-charming magic that came with natural Parseltongue, so it was more of a curiosity than anything useful.

Unfortunately, the language that was supposed to be useful for him, German, was not so easy to learn, and required more than a few cauldrons of memory potion. It was entirely non-magical and had plenty of grammar to trip Harry up. The next step in the regimen, after Harry had used his potion-assisted memory to absorb a basic vocabulary and understanding of grammar, was the use of Baruffio's Brain Elixir in conjunction with an enchanted language orb in the proper language and a babbling beverage. The orb would speak random German sentences into Harry's ear, the babbling beverage would cause him to spew out nonsense uncontrollably, and the dubiously titled Brain Elixir would allow him to control the babbling to an extent and process it all very rapidly. This was supposed to cause him to babble in a German-like fashion, ideally by repeating the sentences very quickly and with the proper pronunciation, aided, once more, by that potion of Barrufio's and the previous studying.

It was at this stage that things had begun to go wrong. At first, it had worked all right; Harry had babbled about vinegar, cats, clocks, feet, and all the rest, but then one day he had been stuck in a loop for an hour—"Die Mädchen brauchen keine Dosen"—_The girls need no cans_. Needless to say, Harry had been very annoyed and "accidental magic" had occurred, garbling the enchantments on his language orb. But that was not the worst of it—he had broken the potion.

Lord Voldemort had been very vexed and very intrigued that day. Apparently, resisting the effects of potions was supposed to be extremely difficult and require a lot of training. Harry had just been happy to stop that infernal babbling and get away from girls and cans forever. Forever it was, indeed; the babbling beverage wouldn't work for him again. Lord Voldemort had actually had Potions Master Snape (who was conveniently one of his servants) attempt to alter the recipe, but even a stronger version had slipped off.

Later that very day, Harry had been drinking his pumpkin juice and had suddenly begun talking nonsense about elbow camels bloop red mice helm etui—etcetera, before he'd regained his wits and managed to shut up. Lord Voldemort had concluded that Harry was consciously resisting the potion after all, as it had worked as soon as he was caught unawares. Except Harry had had no idea how to stop resisting the potion. He wanted to learn German and go to Durmstrang, but he never wanted to babble like that ever again.

As a result, Harry had been reduced to merely repeating the sentences given to him by the language orb of his own volition, before Lord Voldemort had decided that the exercise was pointless and had switched him to the next stage, which involved him, still under the influence of memory and brain-boosting potions, writing responses to random sentences with a self-proofing quill that would correct his grammar. At first, that had also seemed to be working well, and Harry had quickly found that his grammar was excellent—he did not seem to have been making any mistakes!

Then Lord Voldemort had glanced over at his parchment and ruined that fantasy.

"There's something wrong with that quill." he had informed Harry flatly. Apparently, it had not been correcting the mistakes at all. After some contemplation Lord Voldemort had concluded that Harry's imagination was disrupting the magic—"As soon as you believe you are doing well, your will and delusion override the enchantments." Harry had been rather annoyed and frustrated at that. Sometimes he did do well, and he could not stop feeling what he did. Thus, his progress had been slowed down further because he had had to do assignments the "normal" way, that was, Lord Voldemort had had to correct them. The man had not been particularly pleased by it and Harry had thought for a moment that he would refuse, but in the end it had all worked out, to an extent.

Harry's learning speed had still been cut drastically, and it certainly had not helped when half of the spells meant for temporarily altering his mind to think only in the target language had sloughed right off after the first few uses and had never worked again.

All of this had left Harry with only the bare minimum of German comprehension required to study at Durmstrang. He was quite far ahead by ordinary standards, having attempted to put in extra work to make up for the magical lack, but it did not change that he was behind where he needed to be and felt insecure. All of the other children would probably laugh at him. Harry scowled, feeling an uncomfortable clenching inside him at the very thought. He would just have to ignore them. Ignore them.

But how was he supposed to ignore them when he had trouble ignoring their imaginary existences? It was all in his head for now, after all!

There was a quiet _pop_ of displaced air and Dobby in all his wide-eyed, scarf-bedecked glory appeared before him.

"Would Harry be liking butterbeer?" asked the elf. Harry smiled slightly, putting his apprehensive thoughts away for the moment. When would anybody not like a butterbeer?

"Yes please." he said back politely. Dobby disappeared before reappearing almost instantly, a steaming mug of the sweet beverage in hand. Harry took it appreciatively.

"Thanks, Dobby." he took a sip and sighed contentedly. "I needed that." The elf always knew whenever he felt unhappy and he knew how to cheer Harry up.

"Harry is being sad. Is the Dark Lord making Harry sad?" Dobby asked.

"No, no, it's not him." Harry said absently, wondering why Dobby always assumed the worst of Lord Voldemort. Harry didn't complain about him that much, did he? Then Harry wrinkled his nose as he remembered the name Howard Branch again and revised his belief; it was, in fact, the Dark Lord's fault, at least in part. "When am I getting my wand?" he asked though he knew full well when. Dobby held up a disapproving finger.

"After lunch. You knows that." Dobby looked like he might have continued on the subject, but seemed to change his mind. Instead, he asked, "What is Harry liking for lunch?"

Harry shrugged, still feeling pleasantly warm and filled by the butterbeer. "Lord Voldemort hasn't decided?"

"The Dark Lord is eating soup in his study again." Dobby sounded rather displeased at that. Harry patted the elf on the shoulder.

"He's probably cooking up dastardly scheme to bring death and destruction to vegetables." he remarked, nodding sagely, "That's what dark lords do, after all."

"Oh yes, dark lords are being bad, bad wizards and doing bad things." Dobby agreed, shaking his head vigorously and causing his ears to flap about. Harry snorted; Dobby had missed the sarcasm, as usual.

"Er, right. I'll have some of whatever he's having." Harry told Dobby. The elf always made a large amount of everything, and Harry hated wasting food. As far as he knew, Dobby himself only ate raw cabbage and the ambient magic from the house wards, so he certainly would not be finishing up the soup.

"Right away, Harry!" said Dobby, and vanished with a pop. Harry stared at the empty mug in his hand for a long moment, during which the elf did not come back, and concluded that he was meant to make his way downstairs to the kitchen table.

After consuming the delicious bowl of tomato and onion soup he found waiting for him, Harry felt quite cheered up and was ready to go pester Lord Voldemort so that they might purchase his wand. He had got to the top of the stairs and rounded the corner into the corridor containing the Dark Lord's office when he was greeted with the most jarring sight.

Harry Potter was looking right at himself.

The real Harry gave a yell and stepped back, nearly losing his footing. The other Harry merely stared impassively, looking distinctly unimpressed. Harry concluded that the other one was Lord Voldemort in disguise; nobody else he knew could pull off such a stone-faced expression though granted, he did not know many people at all.

"If you're quite finished, we will be purchasing supplies. Where is your pamphlet?" Lord Voldemort inquired. Harry was amazed that he hadn't had to do any pestering after all. He steadied himself on the stair railing.

"Er, back in my room. I'll go get it." he said. Lord Voldemort flicked his wand into his hand and gestured dismissively. The thick Durmstrang pamphlet flew out of the nearby door a moment later and into Harry's hands as he snatched it out of the air before shoving it into his pocket. "Oh, right, thanks. Are we going to Diagon Alley?" He had been there once before, and had found it rather amazing. There were shops for anything he might require, and much more.

But Lord Voldemort shook his head, and Harry marveled again at the somewhat disturbing reflection of himself. "You will purchase a Gregorovitch wand. We will stop by the market for supplies in the meanwhile."

Harry frowned. "I thought Gregorovitch retired." He had wanted an Ollivander wand, anyway; all of his books said that Ollivander was the best. Then again, Harry supposed that all of his books had been written by Hogwarts alumni, who were likely biased in favour of the main supplier of Hogwarts wands.

Lord Voldemort flashed him an impatient glare. "Quite. He stopped crafting wands three years ago. His apprentice now owns the business." Evidently noting that Harry was not yet satisfied with this answer, he added, "Garrick Ollivander is proficient in legilimency and is not afraid to use it."

"Oh." Harry muttered, deflating. Legilimency still scared him. He knew enough occlumency to fill his mind with random German vocabulary, but that was hardly a good defense against an attack. The thought of strangers rummaging around in his brain made him want to cringe. Perhaps a Gregorovitch wand would be fine after all.

"Yes, now let's go." Lord Voldemort lifted his wand and flicked it several times at Harry, who for a moment thought he was about to be cursed, but then felt foolish as he noticed his hair grow down over his eyes and pale drastically.

"A glamour?" Harry asked.

"Human transfiguration." Lord Voldemort replied, brushing past him and walking down the stairs. Harry noted that he moved rather awkwardly, probably unused to Harry's short stature.

"How did you make yourself look like me anyway?" Harry probed. "Transfiguration?"

Lord Voldemort looked at him like he was stupid. "Of course not." He did not elaborate. Harry cursed himself (not literally, of course) for asking extra questions and allowing Lord Voldemort to slip out a non-answer. Sometimes, if he made it awkward for the man not to reply, Harry could actually get something straight out of him. Then again, other times he just got hexed.

They stepped outside the door, walked down a quaint little lane between a row of flowerbeds, and then Harry promptly felt like he was being squeezed and distorted through a straw or possibly a squished Klein bottle as Voldemort grabbed his hand and disapparated them without warning.

"Eep!" Harry gasped, fighting not to retch as they came out on the other side after having spent far too much time in squishy void-space for his liking. Once he'd managed to regain his composure he spared a curious glance around. They had apparated into the middle of a nice field of grass. Harry saw several moving, indistinct black masses in the distance. "Cows!" he exclaimed gleefully, before he turned his attention to the bit of overgrown road he thought he could see just beyond a rickety wooden fence.

Lord Voldemort looked rather displeased, and Harry winced at how silly his face looked when it was frowning. He had never noticed quite how childish the expression was. "I missed."

Harry was alarmed to hear that it was possible to miss while apparating. Did that mean that one could ostensibly apparate into a stone wall or something? The thought itself was painful. "Where are we then?"

"Point me Oak Gate." said Lord Voldemort, dropping his wand onto his open palm. It spun to the left. He stowed his wand and snatched Harry's arm up again in hand and Harry barely had the presence of mind to brace himself before he was once more forced through the dread sensation of apparition.

They reappeared in another nice grass field. This time, however, there was a large, rather distinctive tree growing several meters away. Harry called it distinctive on account of it being the only tree for what looked like miles of flatness, cows, and picket fences around. Otherwise it was a fairly normal-looking large tree with a wide, straight trunk and pleasantly leafy branches.

Lord Voldemort did not let go of Harry's hand and instead pulled him toward the tree. They stopped at its base and he slashed his wand in an alarmingly violent motion. Nothing happened, as far as Harry could tell, but then Lord Voldemort stepped forward and dragged him along _straight through the tree_.

But Harry did not get to see what the inside of a tree looked like, because as soon as he overcame his shock and confusion it was all over already, and they were somehow standing before a bustling crowd of witches and wizards on a dusty cobblestone street packed on both sides with colourful wooden booths and stalls sporting everything from newt's eyes to fizzing eggplant candies and plastered with signs in a multitude of languages.

"That was weird." he muttered. He supposed the tree was similar to the entrance to Diagon Alley, but he had still never expected to go _through_ a solid object. Even he had trouble imagining that kind of thing to be possible, whatever Lord Voldemort liked to say (or rather, complain) about his abilities. "Where are we?"

"Stoneglade Village. It is inside void-space." While Harry was marvelling that it was possible to put a village inside the same void-space one went through while apparating, Lord Voldemort continued, rather disinterestedly, "What are the required supplies?" Harry extracted his now rather rumpled pamphlet out of his pocket and flipped about it, trying to find the page with the requisite information. "You've not read it, have you?" Lord Voldemort remarked dryly. Harry was about to protest before he remembered that he was talking to the Dark Lord, legilimens extraordinaire. He shrugged sheepishly instead.

"I looked through it." he muttered. "There, see?" Harry finally managed to flip to the proper page. Finding it charmed with a bright red easy-tear line, he ripped out the piece of parchment and returned the rest of the pamphlet to his robe pocket.

Clearing his throat, he translated the list out loud: _Ein Zinnkessel (Normgröße 2), _"Size two pewter cauldron…" _ein Sortiment Glas- oder Kristallflaschen_, "…crystal flasks, er…" _eine Waage aus Messing_, "…what's it called? Right, brass scales…" _2 Talglichter, _"…that's two tallow candles?"

"For Divination." Lord Voldemort explained, sounding rather unenthused. Harry found out that the next two items, a glass orb and a tarot deck, belonged also to that class. This was somewhat annoying, as the whole reason he had even chosen Divination was because it was supposed to be a prerequisite for Arithmancy later on, but he _knew_ that arithmancy had nothing to do with anything dubious like looking into crystal balls. He wished the course catalogue had had more than a paragraph of description for every class. At least it had had a list of all required books; Lord Voldemort had owl-ordered them as soon as Harry decided on his electives.

_Ein Zauberstab, _"…and a wand." Harry was still very excited about the wand, however. "So where's Gregorovitch's shop?"

"Later." said Lord Voldemort. Harry scowled, but followed his copy down the street and past a flamboyant display of tropical birds.

"Can I get a pet?" Harry asked hopefully.

"No." was the curt reply. They walked on, continuing through a tall stone archway plastered with moving pictures and bold posters with headings ranging from "WANTED" to "Two for one Unicorn Horns" and "Lost Kneazle; Galleon Reward."

They stopped in front of a large, blue and orange tent with a sign that read, "Worldly Wear House." Harry deduced from the name that it sold clothes, and that he would be buying his uniform here. Another glance at his supplies list told him that the components of the uniform were not actually mentioned. As Harry moved to go inside, however, Lord Voldemort held him back.

The Dark Lord was staring at the sky with a look of consternation on his face. He reached distractedly into his pocket, pulled out a brown pouch, and handed it to Harry along with a coarse handkerchief, a self-inking quill, and a sheet of parchment. He spoke hurriedly, "Money, portkey, linked parchment. That is all the gold you will get. Do not purchase anything I would object to. Notify me when you are finished, and do not write me otherwise unless it is an emergency. Portkey home if possible. The password is _house_." The last was hissed in Parseltongue. Harry nodded, taking the sudden change in plans in stride and wincing slightly at the guttural, choking sound of the password. He hoped his pronunciation would be up to par. Harry didn't think Lord Voldemort quite appreciated the difficulty of the snaky sounds that came out of his mouth.

With that, Lord Voldemort spun on the spot and disapparated. Harry stared at the place where he'd been for a few seconds before turning around and going inside the Worldly Wear House tent. He felt a strange, hollow feeling of solitude; his surroundings suddenly seemed keener to his perception and the world appeared to grow larger. Harry shook his head, as if to dispel an illusion. He should get used to being alone, he reminded himself. After all, tomorrow, he would be going off to Durmstrang, which was a boarding school. Neither Dobby nor Lord Voldemort would be around to watch him. The thought was both liberating and frightening.

"Ha-oh!" cried the portly wizard behind a polished wooden counter as Harry stepped through the tent flap. Unsurprisingly, as was common with tents, the inside was much bigger and did not remotely resemble the shape of the outside. Instead Harry found himself in a posh if rather small shop filled with clothing racks with robes and cloaks in every shape, colour, and size.

Harry looked at the man, waiting for him to perhaps say something else, but only received an expectant stare back. Clearing his throat, Harry said, "Er, hi. I uh…"

The man seemed to light up at his half-hearted greeting. "Oh ho! How can I help you, youngster? Hogwarts robes, perhaps?" He waddled around the counter and began gesturing widely toward the clothing displays.

Harry followed the motion silently for a moment, taken somewhat aback by the man's manner. He had never been clothes-shopping before; all of his robes came second-hand from Draco Malfoy, the son of one of Lord Voldemort's servants. They always showed up high-quality and practically new, so Harry had never had anything to complain about. In any case, the atmosphere of the shop was rather oppressive.

"I, er, no. Durmstrang." he managed to correct. The man looked dismayed for a fraction of a second before a magnanimous smile plastered itself onto his face.

"Oh, Durmstrang! Very good. Right this way. I recommend the silk lining and additional fur on the normal uniform, all for just an extra galleon…"

Harry shifted uncomfortably, before managing to regain a grip on himself. He shook his money pouch discreetly, trying to determine how much there was, before he gave up and looked inside it while the man went on about all of the modifications and tassels he could get on his uniform, all within the school rules of course. It looked like there would be enough for all of his supplies if he shopped sparingly, and in any case he wanted to have some left over if at all possible so he could purchase curiosities that caught his fancy later, since he had foolishly left all of his pocket money, accrued from years of Lord Voldemort's one-galleon-a-month policy, at home.

"Er, if you don't mind, sir, I'd just like the standard uniform." Harry finally said as firmly as he could. The man pursed his lips.

"Are you certain? For just five sickles—"

"I'm sure, sir." Harry said. He was almost tempted to ask for a built-in warming enchantment, considering how cold it was supposed to be at Durmstrang, but he decided against it. Lord Voldemort was not a Lord for nothing—he could probably enchant a dishrag into spell-reflecting battle armour. A few measly warming enchantments on a perfectly good set of robes would be trivial.

Harry left the clothing shop with a pleasantly burgundy Durmstrang outer robe, a standard dark-grey fur cape with shiny brass buttons, and a pair of boots which he had decided to buy after realizing that all of his current footwear was unsuitable for snow. He also had the distinct feeling that he had left behind a rather disgruntled shopkeeper. Tucking his bag under one arm, he extracted his supply list and quill and marked off the uniform. He supposed the potions equipment was next.

Picking a random direction, Harry wandered slowly down the street, looking around for anything that resembled pewter cauldrons and brass scales. He saw multiple stalls peddling potions ingredients, but none that seemed to sell equipment. Luckily, he did spot a booth sporting a picture of what was obviously a crystal ball. It was, thankfully, not some scam fortune-teller booth, but hosted an actual old man selling divination supplies.

"Ah, young man, you look like you need tea read! Finest crystal cup. Only five galleon!"

Aside from having to hastily decline an overpriced set of shiny tea-drinking (and apparently, reading) implements, Harry managed to purchase his candles, glass orb, and tarot deck without incident. His arm was growing sore from the thin paper bag handles pressing down on it, so he decided to go for a trunk next. Unfortunately, finding a trunk shop was more easily said than done. He wasn't even sure if it was possible to sell trunks from a wooden stall.

Finally, after wandering about aimlessly for some time, during which his arms got even sorer and he had to switch his items back and forth twice, he finally spotted a nice-looking old woman who was speaking English to a little girl and made his way up to her.

"Excuse me, ma'am, do you know where I can buy a trunk? For school?"

Fortunately, Harry's assessment of character seemed fairly accurate. The woman smiled at him and pointed him in the right direction. Unfortunately, Harry was not good at following directions, and only managed to get himself lost in the approximate vicinity of the supposed trunk shop. Eventually, however, he entered an unlabeled, dusty brown tent and found himself where he needed to be.

The trunk-seller spoke to him in a language he did not understand and which sounded vaguely like Japanese. He apparently didn't know any English, and didn't know German, either. Harry didn't bother trying Parseltongue. Instead, he turned to approximate hand symbols.

So far, he had managed to convey that he wanted to purchase a trunk, which was to say, he hadn't got anything across at all. The shopkeeper wasted no time in showing him several models of clearly expensive trunk. Harry only shook his head at all of them and tried to mime "small" by pushing his hands closer together. The shopkeeper frowned and began showing him several little wooden chests, inlaid with precious stones, at which Harry shook his head even more vigorously. He pointed to one of the earlier trunks and then copied his previous motion. The shopkeeper still did not seem to understand.

Harry remembered his Durmstrang pamphlet and pulled it out of his pocket, showing the man the moving picture of the keep on the front. This, at last, seemed to help, for now the shopkeeper began showing him school models. Harry at last chose a plain, compact case with extendable wheels and a triple-space (or so it appeared, from the inspection Harry had given it) expansion enchantment on it. He had read somewhere that trunks were supposed to grow with the wizard, and that he could modify its enchantments later when he learned how. A trunk would protect its wizard's items better if it was familiar with that wizard's magic, so pre-enchanted trunks were really only wanted for schooling purposes. The shopkeeper managed to indicate with his fingers that his purchase would be five galleons, and Harry paid and left, not quite in the mood to haggle with somebody with whom he couldn't even properly speak.

Harry wasted no time in putting his robes and divination supplies into his new trunk. The trunk did not have built-in lightening enchantments, but the wheels allowed him to drag it beside him almost effortlessly.

Across the street from the trunk tent he finally found the magical equipment shop, which looked like a giant witch's hat and was labelled with a rather unremarkable sign that said, in painfully small letters, "_Zauberausrüstung_," or magical equipment, which would have been helpful had he been able to see it from farther than a meter away. Naturally, Harry had previously erroneously assumed that it was some kind of hat shop on account of its appearance.

Thankfully, the proprietor of this shop appeared to be a decent sort of woman. She took one look at Harry, pronounced "Durmstrang-Erstklässler!" and promptly handed him his size two pewter cauldron and its complimentary tin ladle, shiny brass scales, and plain glass vials and flasks, all at a discount because it was the last day before school. How she had known he was a first year, or that he was going to Durmstrang, was a mystery, but Harry decided not to question his good luck. He was halfway out the door when he remembered that he had no idea where to get his wand.

_All the way down the street, past both stone arches, and over the bridge, in the second house on the right,_ the woman told him. He thanked her again and followed the fairly easy directions. He supposed the distance was why Lord Voldemort had wanted him to get his wand last. Though he trusted the directions he had been given, Harry still felt a little anxious as the cobblestones gave way to packed earth and still no bridge was in sight. At last, after he passed through a copse of rather tall trees, he caught sight of thatched roofs and heard the whispering of running water.

The bridge was more accurately several wooden boards stacked haphazardly across the narrowest point of the creek. Harry supposed it was held up by magic, because when he put a tentative foot down on the dubious-looking beams, they felt solid and unyielding beneath him. A bit more reassured, he made it the rest of the way across and to the second house on his right.

He paused at the door, feeling awkward. Was this the wand shop? It looked like someone's home, and there was no sign or anything to indicate otherwise. As he was standing indecisively at the threshold, however, the door opened and a young man with a rather severely cut beard peered out. Noting Harry, he said something very quickly in an unfamiliar tongue, though Harry thought he heard "Gregorovitch" somewhere in there. Harry shuffled awkwardly in confusion.

"Zauberstab? Wand?" the man tried. Harry nodded.

"Yes, er, I need a wand." he replied lamely. The man raised an eyebrow with remarkable precision.

"An English boy wants a Gregorovitch wand?" he murmured. Harry wondered if the man was asking rhetorically, or if he expected Harry to say something. A moment later, it seemed not, for he continued, "Well, come in, boy. Here, answer the questions while I get the stock. Honestly, mind you." He ushered Harry through the door and shoved a piece of parchment into his hand before seating him at a small desk positioned by the door.

"Er, sir…" Harry said, waving the parchment at the man after having got a good look. It was printed with script letters he couldn't recognize. The man took out his wand and tapped it, and the words morphed into clear English. Harry set to answering questions ranging from difficult moral dilemmas to seemingly irrelevant things like his favourite sport, worst fear, and deepest desire.

Eventually, Harry finished the questionnaire and was left sitting awkwardly at the desk, fiddling with the nub of his borrowed quill. The man still hadn't returned.

Five more minutes later, as Harry was considering standing up to go look for him, the man finally came back, two gigantic trunks in tow.

"All right, let's see that. Don't be shy now." He held out his hand, and Harry hesitantly gave him the sheet. The man hummed as he read over the answers, twirling his beige wand between his fingers and tapping the parchment here and there.

"Excuse me, sir, but what are those for?" Harry asked at last, as the wait became somewhat unbearable.

"To gauge your personality, boy! I think I've got the idea. You've got ideals. You're decisive. Let's start with these." The man vanished the question parchment and knelt down before one of the trunks, pulling out a ring of keys and inserting a key into the fourth keyhole of seven. There was a loud click and the lid lifted up. The man took out a stack of long, thin boxes and set them down on the top of the other trunk. Opening one of the boxes, he removed a wand and offered, it, handle first, to Harry, who took it gingerly.

"Well, wave it. Fir, manticore hair, 27 cm."

Harry did so, feeling rather foolish. Nothing happened. The wandmaker pursed his lips and took it back.

"Try this one. Fir, unicorn hair, 32 cm." That one did not work either, nor did "fir, dragon heartstring, 27 cm" and "fir, chimera claw, 24.5 cm," but "fir, augurey feather, 38 cm" produced a few weak sparks.

"What does that mean?" Harry asked. The wandmaker hummed.

"Core is compatible, wood is not."

This led to Harry trying out a large number of wands with feather cores and varying woods. At last, Harry managed to produce a shower of blue and orange sparks, respectively, from a holly wand and a cypress one, both augurey feather. "Which one is better?" Harry wanted to know, but the man seemed dissatisfied.

"Neither." he replied distractedly, digging around in the sixth compartment of the first trunk. "This one. Cypress, phoenix feather, 33.5 cm." Harry waved it. Gold and silver sparks burst out, and it felt warm and lively in his hand.

"This one seems good." Harry said. In truth, he was getting bored and wanted to go home. He had thought that getting a wand would be exciting, and it had been, for perhaps the first half hour. Now his arm was getting stiff from having to wave countless wands about for so long.

"Adequate." the wandmaker agreed somewhat hesitantly. "Holly and phoenix feather would be best for you, I say. Such a wand is volatile, and the materials are very rare. I have never seen it. Would you like to try others?"

Harry inspected the pinkish cypress wand in his hand and gave it another flick. Nothing happened outwardly, but he could feel it responding somehow, as if in the back of his mind.

"No, I think it's fine." he said. "How much?"

"Seven galleons."

Harry paid the wandmaker and left the shop, wondering if he had made the right decision. The type of wand ultimately did not matter that much, as long as it functioned for the wielder. The cypress wand would certainly work for him. And the wandmaker had said it himself—he'd never seen a holly and phoenix feather wand before. Harry probably had his most compatible wand in hand already. In any case, all he wanted now was to go home. It was nearly dark outside now, and he felt unsettled despite himself.

"_House_." Harry hissed in Parseltongue. An involuntary shudder ran over his body, and he realized rather belatedly that he was probably under anti-portkey wards. He had thought that since Stoneglade Village was in void-space, it wouldn't be able to have wards like that, though. Harry walked back towards the market street figuring that he could ask somebody where to find the apparition and portkey point.

Except there was no market street; across the bridge and on the other side of the copse of trees was a path through miles and miles of grassy meadow as far as he could see, which admittedly was not very far given the uncertain illumination offered by the setting sun. Harry felt some panic rising up in him before he reminded himself that keeping calm was important. How would he find the apparition point now?

Then, Harry felt stupid; Lord Voldemort had apparated them there in the first place, into a field with cows. If he walked far enough, Harry would probably escape the anti-portkey wards. In fact, several steps and some mangled Parseltongue later, Harry found himself on the front walk of his house, where Dobby welcomed him back eagerly and took his trunk and supplies and popped away to pack all the things he would need tomorrow, leaving Harry to a late dinner of mashed potatoes and beef stew.

Lord Voldemort hadn't got back yet, so Harry took out his linked parchment and scribbled "I'm home" on it. A moment later, the ink was swallowed up and the message, "Noted." appeared in Lord Voldemort's elegant script.

It was only seven in the evening, but Harry was exhausted. Deciding that he would need his energy for the first day of school, he elected to retire early. As he was about to get into bed, he noticed that a new line had manifested itself on his linked parchment:

"Dobby will bring you to the port tomorrow. Do not contact me further."

Harry wondered what Lord Voldemort could be busy with now, but decided that it probably had nothing to do with him, and that he would be better off not knowing. Instead, he turned his thoughts to his name again. Howard Branch. Harry Branch. _My name is Branch_.

* * *

A/N: Guess what? I lied/failed as usual. No real Durmstrang yet. The chapter was just getting too long, and I didn't want to delay any more. Also, I hope I did not offend anyone with Harry's wand. I determined it by consultation with Ollivander's notes on Pottermore, with some leeway since he noted that he and Gregorovitch disagreed about practically everything except hawthorn wands. Clearly, Gregorovitch's apprentice does not have and has never made a holly and phoenix feather wand, which Ollivander notes is a tricky combination. Anyway, thank you to my readers, and I encourage you all to review. :) Also, fanfiction seems to randomly delete the spaces between my words on occasion; I've tried to edit the problems out, but I can't be sure if it worked completely, so please mention it if you see anything flagrantly wrong.


	8. Wizardry and Trickery

Lord Voldemort pushed himself out of Stoneglade Village and into a temporary corridor of void-space before displacing himself back out into ordinary three-space in the back alley between two tall office buildings. Under his left arm was a stunned post owl with a thick parchment letter tied to its leg. Taking a moment to gather his composure, Lord Voldemort flicked his wand into his hand and used it to transfigure his clothes into a grey T-shirt and brownish trousers, and the owl into a wooden cube after he'd removed the letter. He turned it over to study it briefly before he tapped it with his wand. The words on the back shifted. Satisfied, he pocketed it, shuffled out into the sunlight, and made his way down the sidewalk.

Eric Jones was going home to his foster parents, Emma and Joseph Watkins. Eric was eleven years old. He was an orphan who had been going from family to children's home to family for ages. Somewhere along the way, his old paperwork had been lost (admittedly, perhaps with some assistance) and nobody had noticed. Eric had messy black hair and green eyes, and wore glasses. He had been with Emma and Joseph for six months already.

Naturally, the couple had been concerned when, a few weeks ago, Eric came home late from school and looking slightly different. They couldn't quite put a finger on what was strange about him; he was still black-haired, green-eyed, and wore glasses. They had been somewhat alarmed when he did not seem to want to go to the local football matches anymore, wondering if the boy had come down with something, but the next day they seemed to have forgotten the matter entirely. In fact, they had quite thoroughly forgotten that Eric Jones was loud and exuberant, and seemed to be under the impression that he had really always been distant and reserved instead.

Poor Emma and Joseph would have been horrified and astonished to learn that young Eric Jones was actually dead, his body altered and appropriated for dastardly reasons. Alas, they lived on in ignorant bliss, taking care of the nice, quiet boy who was always polite to them and didn't ask for much. Every morning, he would make his bed perfectly, feed the dog, and then disappear off on his own, coming back at dusk. This would have worried Emma, except she never seemed to notice when he was gone, for she would always remember some bit of housework she'd forgotten to do whenever the subject came up.

In actuality, 'Eric' never slept in his bed at all and was gone for longer than anybody in the house ever realized. If Emma and Joseph ever felt dissatisfied, the feeling would be remedied with a flick of a pale wand and everything would be all right again in the world. After all, overcoming a muggle's nonexistent magical will was child's play for any competent wizard, and certainly for one of Lord Voldemort's calibre.

Though his power was restricted while he moved about in his new body, he had enough access to it that it would not be a problem unless he had to duel somebody on the level of Albus Dumbledore. Lord Voldemort was fairly proud of his new accomplishment anyhow; as far as he knew, nobody had ever managed to successfully be in possession of two living bodies at the same time before. That was probably on account of the fact that one could not actually control both of them at the same time, and having two bodies did not make one any more immune to death than having a single one—in fact, it probably made continued survival more difficult, since if either body died, the soul would go with it, and stretching oneself between the bodies was magically taxing. Lord Voldemort had got around the first problem by retrieving one of his horcruxes and keeping it on the person of his original body; since the horcrux was an anchor for his soul, if his new body were to die by any means other than the killing curse, he would be able to return to his original body alive and well and _without_ expending his horcrux. The ability to do such a thing was monumental, and he would have gone on to make even more bodies for himself had the second problem not made such a task impossible. Even Lord Voldemort did not have enough magic—that was, willpower and imagination—to keep more than two of himself alive and still be able to function. Only occlumency allowed him to remain focused on his spell subconsciously while he did other things, and occlumency would only go so far before his mind would begin to tear itself apart from the strain.

In any case, the second body did not seem to come with too many drawbacks, except that its brain was not used to being his brain, for lack of a better way to express it, and so was somewhat inefficient in spellcasting. He had actually had to transmute this body's brain into his own—it had been some rather nasty business, as alchemy was definitely not his forte—and link the brains so that while he was consciously inside his new body, his old brain would still be doing all of the functioning, leaving his new one to store and execute the commands. But at the same time his old brain would also need to give signals to the new body—needless to say, it had been extraordinarily difficult to achieve a working equilibrium and protect his original brain from any damage that might happen to that of the new body. He had checked his spellwork meticulously, and could only hope that he had not made some fatal oversight.

On the positive side, after having read countless alchemical tomes and dug through his old notes on transfiguration theory to solve the problem of the brains, changing the new body's appearance to exactly match that of Harry Potter had been trivial. Transmutation on a living, magical being was extremely difficult, since the being's magic would fight it every step of the way, but transmutation of a corpse was quite simple, if one had the right formula for it. After that, reanimating the corpse of Eric Jones, now the mirror image of Harry Potter, had also been fairly straightforward with a few alterations on an advanced refinement of the inferius spell. Methods of magic for restoring life to bodies were very well developed, but interest in them had waned to nearly nothing after it had been conclusively proven that bringing back a departed soul was impossible. The brain-damaged, magic-distorted doppelgangers that arose generally disgusted those who expected the return of their loved ones. Of course, for Lord Voldemort, this result was exactly what he had needed.

In fact, he was quite pleased with the outcome. At first, he had considered using a rather dubious ritual and potion he had discovered to permanently transmute his original body, but the idea had been terribly distasteful to him. Then he had thought about creating a new body, but from what he had seen, the process would have been extremely magic-intensive and the result disappointingly shoddy. After all, permanent conjuration was one of the most difficult and taxing things a wizard could ever do. That gave him the idea of altering a body instead of making an entirely new one, and now here he was, lounging on the bed of Eric Jones in a comfortable ray of sunlight.

In his hand was Harry Potter's Hogwarts letter. It had come at a rather inconvenient time, seeing as he had been supervising Harry's shopping trip, but he doubted any trouble would come to the boy. Harry was intelligent enough to keep himself alive. Perhaps it was fortunate that they had been in Stoneglade Village at the time of the letter's arrival, as it had expedited the process; the owls were always told to deliver the letters to children only if they were either inside a house with three or fewer muggles or alone, something he had discovered upon doing further research into the fascinating system. Voldemort had planned to bring Harry to the residence of the Watkins and wait for the letter there, but catching the owl with the letter made everything much simpler. Owls couldn't enter Stoneglade Village without wizarding assistance, since entrance required a specific spell and it was not yet possible for an owl portal, which essentially "apparated" owls, to be constructed halfway inside void-space. Thus, the owl had been attempting to follow Harry Potter by flying confusedly from portal to portal. Voldemort had only noticed it after several uses of legilimency on Harry, which had allowed him to detect the weak connection the mail owl had formed with its target. From there, catching the owl mid-portal had not been too difficult.

Now, he only needed to wait for his muggle-born orientation. He was not certain how the Hogwarts staff determined who was muggle-born; perhaps they used a process of elimination regarding the list of students, depending on who had sent a reply. He remembered that his own, original Hogwarts letter had been delivered by the deputy headmaster himself. Now he knew that that was because it had been returned to the school marked with his location, having not been dropped off by the owl because he had never been sufficiently distanced from muggles to receive it. But some muggle-borns would receive their letters by mail if their families were small enough, so that condition was certainly not the determiner.

Finding himself restless as he sat on his small bed, waiting, Voldemort decided to actually read the letter. He skipped over the script heading detailing Albus Dumbledore's many titles.

"Dear Mr. Jones,

"We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School, a prestigious institute for the magical arts of witchcraft and wizardry. Please find enclosed an information packet regarding Hogwarts and the magical world. A representative will arrive at your home within a week to answer any further questions you may have.

"Yours Sincerely,

"Minerva McGonagall,

"Deputy Headmistress"

Lord Voldemort hummed with interest. The wording of the letter was quite different from that of the one Dumbledore had handed to him decades ago. His own had simply included some basic information about Hogwarts; Dumbledore had given some minimal further explication and had sent him on his way to Diagon Alley for his supplies. Voldemort could also only assume that the letter for known purebloods would also be formulated differently, as they certainly would not require any introduction to the wizarding world or Hogwarts.

Extracting the information packet, Voldemort flipped through it idly, noting the moving pictures populating generous portions of each page and the neat, standardized auto-quill text printed on the parchment in crisp green ink. He remembered the muggles he lived with and spent several seconds attempting to formulate a suitable reaction to receiving his letter before he grew annoyed and decided to work on a bit of magic to do the job instead.

Taking out his wand, he tapped it contemplatively on the parchment envelope. Yes, the envelope would do. He would hand it to Emma Watkins and she would react with surprise and bemusement—or however she wanted to react, really. Then she would remember a moment later only that Eric Jones had reacted in much the same way. And of course, that would be completely normal.

Lord Voldemort supposed that a false memory enchantment would be a good start. He was quite proficient at such spells, for he had been using them since his late Hogwarts years to cover his tracks, and well enough that his efforts had gone undetected by aurors. Of course, he had always also known exactly what he had wanted the victim to remember. Making the enchantment act conditionally would be more difficult, and merited some careful thinking, lest it backfire. He could, of course, simply enchant exactly whatever he wanted into Emma Watkins's memory, but Lord Voldemort was not one to back down from a challenge. Lord Voldemort lost to no one, least of all himself.

He paused for a moment, acknowledging that that thought was actually completely illogical.

Then he returned to his little project. He would also have to tie the memory enchantment to the parchment and have it activated by a specific touch. Perhaps he could place the enchantment only on the front flap, so as to avoid touching it himself and setting it off, while ensuring that Emma Watkins would. She would not need to forget anything; instead, she only needed to make a new memory at that very moment. It should insert itself subtly into her day. She would remember Eric Jones opening the letter.

Voldemort tapped the flap of the envelope, weaving the base of the enchantment. That part of the memory was fixed and simple. But how would he attribute her reaction to her memory of Eric Jones? It was a complicated operation. He was certain some spell like it must already exist and have been nicely packaged into a movement-incantation combination, but now Voldemort felt obstinacy coming on; he would figure it out, and he would not fall to looking it up.

Voldemort waved his wand again, pulling some of the magic back. The spell should not begin with the basic memory of Eric Jones. It would be better to base it off the conditional; that was, Emma Watkins's feeling. Therefore she should at that moment only recall that Eric Jones also felt that way. Now it was easy to cast the enchantment; it really was not so different from a combination of a false memory implant and the mechanics behind the cheering charm.

Satisfied, Voldemort pulled a wooden cube out of his pocket. A few wand waves later he reversed the transfiguration, memory-charmed the resulting owl, and threw it out the window next to his bed, where it fell some distance before regaining its bearings and soaring into the sky with a distinct air of disgruntlement.

Now Voldemort remembered the transfiguration he had applied to Harry. His spells usually lasted up to a week, but Harry would need much more disguising than that. He hoped that Dobby would have the sense to modify Harry's appearance as necessary in a more long-term fashion. The hair-growth potion he had asked Severus for had only just arrived that morning and Voldemort had not had the chance to give it to the boy. He doubted he would be returning to the house; now that the Hogwarts letter had been delivered, it would be far too risky. Moving his consciousness back to his original body while he was so far away was something he did not want to try until he had no other choice.

Suppressing a sigh of annoyance, he pushed himself off the bed and to his feet, snatched the letter back up carefully, and exited the room. Clearing his throat and renewing the compulsion in his voice just in case it had worn off while he had not been paying attention, he called out, "Mrs. Watkins! You will not believe what just happened. Come over here!" The words fell awkwardly from his lips, and he vowed to put more effort into altering his speech patterns. He had been able to act quite well as a child, and it was irksome that the talent seemed to have waned with age and disuse. Perhaps the problem was also that, as a child, he had been more similar to other children than he was now. In any case, he couldn't go around relying on compulsion-laced speech once he was "introduced" to the wizarding world, since some people, but most importantly, Albus Dumbledore, would certainly notice. Lord Voldemort found it irritating that Dumbledore now would have that advantage over him as well; he knew the man applied subtle mind-influencing magic liberally to people he did not like or trust. It really seemed like an excellent way of smoothing the path to getting what one wanted.

Emma Watkins walked around the corner, wearing yellow rubber gloves and a mildly glazed expression. Lord Voldemort scowled slightly; he needed to work on his charisma spells so that they did not leave noticeable effects, in case he ever required them again. For all he lamented Dumbledore's lucky abuse of power, Voldemort had never actually had to resort to them before—his natural charm and his great magical power had sufficed. Unfortunately, charm and power were essentially nonexistent at the moment, considering that he was masquerading as an awkward eleven-year-old boy who was under the impression that he was a muggle.

"What is it?" asked Emma Watkins. Lord Voldemort handed her the envelope.

"Open it," he said. It was somewhat out of character, and he probably ought to at least attempt to act like a little boy, but Voldemort found the entire notion rather painful. He wondered how he would last seven years under the scrutiny of Albus Dumbledore and real children. Killing Dumbledore underhandedly as soon as he arrived was an enticing option, but besides being incredibly risky to accomplish it would also be plainly stupid. Though Dumbledore as a man was a formidable wizard and enermy, Dumbledore the political figure was a thousand times more of an obstacle. The nasty thing about political figures, of course, was that they tended to linger for awhile after the deaths of their bodies. The last thing Voldemort wanted was for Dumbledore to become a martyr and a symbol of hope, a reason for the peons to fight against injustice under the banner of his ideals. As long as public opinion of Dumbledore remained even remotely genial, killing him outright was out of the question. In fact, Voldemort doubted that even a tsunami of smear campaigns would render it beneficial for Dumbledore to be murdered; as much as Lord Voldemort hated to acknowledge the virtues of his enemies, Dumbledore knew how to inspire loyalty and to keep it. The only good way Voldemort could think of to get rid of Dumbledore was to wait for him to die of natural causes—a rather bleak prognosis, even if Lord Voldemort was immortal and Albus Dumbledore was thirty years older than him.

It was quite annoying; if Lord Voldemort won his political campaign he would be able to safely remove Dumbledore by simply duelling him to the death—assuming he had grown suitably in skill by that time—but one of his greatest political opponents was Dumbledore, and the entire purpose of getting rid of him was to allow a smoother revolution. People naturally formed factions, and ideology only got one so far, but it seemed that Voldemort would be relying solely on ideology for at least several more years. Resuming the terror campaign would be rather pointless at present, especially when the latest anti-werewolf legislation had just pulled through and several of the more vocal pro-integration groups had proposed the outlawing of arranged marriages, of all things, which had only further angered and horrified traditionalists. Though both of these developments were actually against Lord Voldemort's long-term political goals, they placed pressure on the bubble of discontent and therefore continued to push supporters to his side, even if unofficially.

"Is this a joke? Eric did you…" Emma Watkins blinked in bewilderment. She shook her head. "Who gave you this? Are they watching the house?" She looked about, as if the answer would be waiting around somewhere in sight.

Voldemort supposed his spell had worked. He wanted to tell the muggle to go away and not to worry about it, but he knew that would merely be negligence and laziness. Gathering his wits, he put on a confused expression and said, "An owl flew inside and dropped it on my bed. It was frightening."

He grimaced at his choice of words. He needed to practice much more. Perhaps he would review with his recording orb.

"An owl? Are you serious?"

"I'm serious!" Use contractions more often, Voldemort remembered. Say "er." Twitch unbecomingly. "I don't know what is going on."

Emma Watkins stared at the paper for a rather long time. "It's probably just a prank," she said at last, though she hardly looked convinced. "Be careful, alright? Close your window."

She seemed suddenly to forget all about Voldemort as she turned around and hurried in the opposite direction. Voldemort stared at her back for a few moments before he recalled the weak muggle-redirection ward he still wore. His active compulsions had overridden its effect temporarily, but clearly it had re-emerged while he had not been paying attention. He would have to remember to take it off when the Hogwarts representative arrived, in order to avoid any accidents.

Though he felt reluctant to do so, Lord Voldemort returned to Eric Jones's room and re-conjured his recording orb, hoping that the enchantments on it had not been damaged in the meantime. Vanishing and re-conjuring was a rather cheap way of storing items in an immediately accessible manner, provided one had a way of constantly keeping the vanished items in mind so that they were not completely destroyed while in void-space. Occlumency served quite well for holding one or two items, but the presence of complex enchantments exponentially increased the strain. Fortunately, a recording orb was a fairly simple device.

Tapping the orb with his wand, Voldemort set it to play.

"Treat me as if I am somebody your age," Voldemort heard his own voice say, strangely unfamiliar played back through the recording device.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Harry's voice demanded.

"Exactly what it sounds like."

"Fine. Er… okay. Let's play Exploding Snap, okay?" Lord Voldemort noted the devious tone of Harry's voice. He supposed the ensuing events had merited some sort of plotting.

The recording orb went on to play back the conversational results of a rather irritating series of losses for Lord Voldemort at a children's card game.

He tapped the orb again and listened more closely to Harry's speech. "No offense, my Lord, but you're pants at this game."

Lord Voldemort scowled at the orb, but obligingly internalised Harry's frequent use of slang and atrociously rushed speech. Harry did not exactly speak quickly—instead, it seemed as if he were trying to say everything he wanted to say at once, causing the words to stumble over each other. Voldemort wondered where Harry had learned common slang, anyway; perhaps that knowledge came out of all the young-adult books he had read.

The artificial annoying chime of what Lord Voldemort belatedly recognized as the doorbell rang through the house. He heard the clicking of slippers on the wooden flooring and then the heavy sound of released air as the door was pulled open.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes, I'm looking for Mr. Eric Jones? I'm a representative from Hogwarts. You recently received the letter, correct?"

There was a stretch of silence. Lord Voldemort dropped his recording orb into his pocket, not in the mood to need to remember its existence in void-space, and tucked his wand into his pant leg, where he secured it with some minor sticking magic and formed a protective bubble around it. He remembered suddenly that he would need to get a new wand as Harry Potter. His wand was the distinctive bleached white of wand-grade yew, and he was sure that, if Dumbledore did not recognize it outright, he would at least find it disturbingly familiar. Perhaps he should have kept it with his original body—but Voldemort supposed that it was too late to remedy that now.

"Excuse me but… is this a joke?" he heard weakly in the distance. Remembering to end all mind-influencing enchantments he'd woven around himself, he strode down the hall and into the foyer of the house.

"Who is it, Mrs. Watkins?" he called softly, turning over some possible things to say in his mind.

"It's… that letter…" Emma Watkins did not appear to know what to say. Lord Voldemort stepped closer to the door to get a look at the Hogwarts representative.

She was a tall, stern-looking woman in tartan plaid dress robes. Her black hair was pulled back into a severe bun, and a pair of thin rectangular spectacles perched on her nose. Lord Voldemort thought she looked familiar.

As he stepped into view, it quickly became clear that the woman thought he looked familiar too.

"My word! Harry Potter?" she exclaimed, eyes widening. Voldemort was somewhat stunned by this immediate recognition.

At the last moment before speaking, Lord Voldemort remembered to act uncertain in childish manner. "Er… I'm Eric. You—I think you've got me mixed up with someone else."

The woman stared at him a moment longer before she seemed to calm herself. "My apologies," she said somewhat distractedly, "I am Professor McGonagall. I'm here to answer any questions you may have about Hogwarts and magic, Mrs. Jones… Mr. Jones."

Lord Voldemort noticed that Emma Watkins was still staring with a combination of indignity and bewilderment at the threshold of the door, where the witch stood.

"Please come in, Professor," Voldemort said, just as Emma Watkins seemed to regain her wits at last.

"Eric!" she reprimanded, looking rather alarmed. "Look here," she told Professor McGonagall, "I don't know what kind of horrible joke this is supposed to be, but you can't just show up like this and expect—expect…"

Professor McGonagall had vanished. There was a high-pitched "meow!" from below, and Emma Watkins shrieked as she saw the tabby cat standing on her welcome mat, looking up at her expectantly. There were strange square markings around the cat's eyes, shaped suspiciously like McGonagall's spectacles. Lord Voldemort was reluctantly impressed. The animagus transformation took a vivid imagination and a strong will to master, besides a detailed knowledge of transfiguration. Theoretically, any Hogwarts student at NEWT-Transfiguration level could probably learn the transformation, but most people simply did not have the single-minded dedication to continually practice and complete the process or the skill not to permanently disfigure themselves in the attempt. Lord Voldemort himself had never bothered, as the ability had seemed fairly useless to him; almost anything he could do as an animal he could do as a wizard.

Then the cat turned back into Professor McGonagall, who he supposed must be the Transfiguration professor. "I apologize, Mrs. Jones, but this is no joke. Magic exists, and your son is a wizard."

"Watkins," Emma Watkins finally managed to say.

"What?" Professor McGonagall murmured, startled.

"My name is Emma Watkins. I'm Eric's foster mother," she elaborated, smiling rather stiffly.

"Oh." Something seemed to occur to McGonagall and she peered more closely at Voldemort. He supposed she must be wondering again whether he was really Harry Potter, which quite suited his purposes. "Mr. Jones. Are you—are you _certain_ that you're Eric Jones."

Lord Voldemort tried to imagine himself sixty years younger, talking to Dumbledore. He imagined the professor asking, _are you certain you are Tom Riddle? _Putting a suitably offended expression on his face, he replied, somewhat forcefully, "Of course I'm certain! What do you even mean?" He knew exactly what she meant, certainly, but it was something he never could have guessed without much extra knowledge.

"Never mind that," said Professor McGonagall, though she hardly seemed convinced. Voldemort did nothing to further insist that he was Eric Jones. After all, the Hogwarts register would not show his false name and it would at least have to appear that somebody other than his parents had named him Eric Jones, so he thought he should not raise extra negative suspicion by being too vehement about it.

"So how did you turn into a cat, Professor?" Lord Voldemort asked her, mustering all of his apparent childish curiosity.

"The animagus transformation. It's an advanced transfiguration skill," Professor McGonagall explained.

"So I'm magical too, right? Can I learn how to do that at the school?" he pressed. McGonagall looked somewhat uncomfortable.

"You will learn everything you need to attempt the transformation by the time you graduate, yes," she finally said. Lord Voldemort applauded her hedging. Though the statement was true, one really did have to pursue a great amount of independent study before one even knew how to go about starting.

He wracked his brains for some way to express appreciation at something. Finally, he settled on, "Wicked!" He turned to a rather uncomfortable Emma Watkins and asked, "Can I go?" At that, she looked even more reluctant.

Of course, he was hardly going to allow a muggle to stop him from attending, and from the looks of it Professor McGonagall was thinking along the same lines. As much as people tried to be civil about it, magical schooling was essentially mandatory—without it, an ignorant child would either craftily learn to control it himself through dangerous experimentation or continue to have accidental outbursts as he grew up and be fairly dysfunctional in both worlds. Hogwarts and a dozen smaller trade schools for speciality magic were funded by a good piece of the Ministry budget and several generous donations from alumni so that they could continue to offer free tuition and copious scholarships for those in need. The money was a small matter in the long run; the Ministry could simply not afford to allow untrained wizards to grow up and wreak havoc on society.

"Look…" said Emma at last, "I'd like to know a bit more about this Hogwarts. It's—it's a boarding school, isn't it? We take care of Eric, but we can't afford to pay for something like that."

McGonagall moved quickly to reassure her. "We have a special fund for orphans, though he might have to get some things secondhand," she said. Lord Voldemort noted with amusement that nobody had mentioned he was an orphan. That Eric Jones was in foster care only implied that his parents were in some way unavailable, not that they were dead. Very few children in the system were truly orphans. But he said nothing; Harry Potter might not be a real orphan, but Voldemort had taken care to erase any remnant of relations Eric Jones might have had from memory and record.

"What's the c—" Voldemort paused briefly and revised his question, having just been about to say "curriculum," which was hardly a childish way to phrase things, "I mean, what kinds of classes are there, ma'am?" He was genuinely curious in some part, because it had, after all, been decades since he himself had attended Hogwarts. He did remember Lucius complaining that Cursed Artefacts had been discontinued as a special course in his seventh year, though Voldemort also recalled that that class had been fairly worthless anyway, even if having taken it had given him the credentials to work at Borgin and Burkes directly out of Hogwarts.

Professor McGonagall seemed to find his question relieving. "At Hogwarts there are seven core classes: Transfiguration, Potions, Charms, History, Herbology, Astronomy, and Defense Against the Dark Arts. First years also have flying lessons."

Because Voldemort knew well that Harry Potter was obsessed with flying, he interjected, "Flying?"

"Yes, on broomsticks," McGonagall clarified. "There is also a popular sport called Quidditch played in the air." She went on to explain the four houses and the house teams.

Voldemort tried his best to look interested. Flying had always been the one thing at school he had definitively not excelled at. Granted, he could handle himself competently on a broomstick, but that was all, and he found the sensation of riding one distinctly uncomfortable. That was why he had taught himself to fly on his own power as soon as he could, just so he would never have to sit on a broom again. The only advantage a broom had over, say apparition, was that one did not need a wand to use it. apparition was annoying in that it was one of those things that really did require a wand in order to remain effective. Imagining oneself somewhere else was easy enough, but the power to break through reality and put oneself into void-space was incredibly draining and without a wand to focus the breach, the chances that even the most skilled wizard would splinch himself were extremely high.

"So witches really fly on broomsticks?" Emma finally asked somewhat redundantly. Honestly, Voldemort remembered his own bemusement over that fact, which had lasted until he had realized that, clearly, the muggle myths had been based on seeing real witches and broomsticks, which had naturally come first.

"So are those all of the classes?" he asked Professor McGonagall, interrupting the awkward silence that had come upon them. Surely they could not be all.

"In your third year you will be able to choose from a list of electives. If you're interested, I can make you a copy of the course catalogue. As you are inquiring, I assume you wish to attend Hogwarts?" Before Emma Watkins could interrupt further, Voldemort nodded, and that seemed to be all the confirmation Professor McGonagall needed. "We must be on our way to get supplies, then." She flicked her wand a conjured a piece of parchment, and then tapped it once before handing it to him.

"Where do you buy things like wands and spellbooks?" Voldemort asked, glancing curiously at the course catalogue. The parchment was overly smooth and perfect in his hand, a tell-tale sign of a transfigured object. He remembered asking something about where one bought supplies the first time as well. The information packet he had recently skimmed had also been horrible about clarifying it. Voldemort folded up the conjured parchment and put it in his pocket.

"In Diagon Alley," she replied, "I will help you find everything, of course. There is just one more family scheduled to come today."

"Today? As in now?" Emma asked sharply. "But—"

"I can go alone," Voldemort said to her.

"Alone?" Both women exclaimed at once. Voldemort turned to McGonagall and quickly ducked his head. He remembered refusing Dumbledore's offer of accompaniment and thereby arousing some distaste, if not suspicion. He would certainly not make the same mistake again. "I mean, ma'am, with you. Mrs. Watkins doesn't have to come if she's busy."

Voldemort glanced to Emma Watkins and found her looking strangely relieved. "If you'll be fine on your own," she said vaguely. Voldemort nodded.

Were he a parent, he thought he would be more concerned at letting his child go off with a stranger to buy strange objects. But Eric Jones was an orphan, after all, and Emma Watkins merely a temporary guardian. He took Professor McGonagall's hand as she requested after she had given a small speech about apparition, and felt himself squeezed abruptly into void-space, with the incredible pressure eagerly attempting to smother him and destroy him so that in his place was nothing once more. Side-along apparition was always a pain, and Voldemort had to pause for a moment to swallow several times so he would not retch. The main caster always had much more trouble keeping a passenger whole and oriented, and so the sensation of travelling through void-space was several times worse than when one apparated only oneself.

"Are you all right?" Professor McGonagall asked.

"I'm fine," Voldemort replied, smoothing out the wrinkles in his transfigured shirt. He had actually transfigured that morning's robes as well; the base material was a large piece of cotton cloth. He usually kept that piece of cloth and a light wooden dowel around as easily accessible transfiguration bases. Casting long-lasting transfigurations on plant matter was much easier than doing so on metals, similar shape and size transfigurations were also less taxing than disparate ones, and of course having a base at all expended much less effort than conjuring something from nothing. Just because he would be able to conjure a house out of thin air did not mean Lord Voldemort wanted to have to exert so much concentration for every little thing.

"We'll pick up another student and then go to Diagon Alley together," McGonagall told him. "Can you stay here while I speak to her? I shouldn't be too long."

They were under the shade of a large tree in a muggle play park; a chain-link fence surrounded a plot of grass and cement, beside which was a large sand pit and a colourful set of swings, slides, and climbing frames. There was a toddler on the swings, her father standing behind her seat and pushing her up in the air as she giggled, but otherwise the area was deserted.

"Yes, ma'am," he confirmed. Of course, Professor McGonagall was not so foolish as to leave an apparently muggle-born wizard who might actually be Harry Potter completely unattended. Though she nodded to him and turned to leave, he saw her flick her wand and when he searched for what she had done, found several temporary wards around the park, and one basic tracking charm on his person.

Voldemort reached into his pocket and took out two folded bits of parchment. He spread one out and saw that it was still blank. Harry was not yet finished with his purchases, then. Taking the other, the course catalogue the professor had conjured for him, he unfolded it and lined it up with his linked parchment. Then he tapped it with his hand and spread them apart, leaving all of the words from the conjuration on the reverse side of the linked parchment before he dispelled the conjuration.

With nothing else to do, Voldemort studied the course catalogue and planned out his new academic career. He was to be Harry Potter, and he knew that that name was reasonably well known for having been connected to the disappearance of Voldemort. People would have preconceived notions of him, despite any logic that said otherwise.

And then there was the Sorting Hat. Voldemort did not know how to fool it; it had been enchanted centuries ago by the founders of Hogwarts and he had only ever come into contact with it once. All he knew was that it was able to gauge one's personality without actually using any mind magic at all. His original sorting had been straightforward—the Hat had taken one look at his ambition and had declared him a Slytherin. He supposed his new plan was even more cunning and ambitious, and doubted he could escape being sorted there a second time.

Lord Voldemort would certainly not mind being in Slytherin house—really, what house one was sorted into in Hogwarts did not make much of a difference—but it could draw some suspicion if he were to be incautious. The Hat did have a memory, and it would attempt to sort families into the same house, as long as there was an approximate fit. Both of Harry Potter's parents had been in Gryffindor, and the last few male Potters before James Potter had also been in that house. Still, that did not mean that Harry Potter could not go into Slytherin on his own merit. But because of the Slytherin-Gryffindor rivalry, it would be more difficult (though certainly not impossible) for him to find allies in Gryffindor, which was of course half of his purpose. He needed to discredit Dumbledore and paint himself well to the Hogwarts students even as his forces filtered into the Department of Mysteries and the regulatory sections of the Ministry of Magic so that when it came time the coup d'état would go as smoothly as possible and the newest generation of witches and wizards would support his aims. Because most of the current Slytherins' parents were already his supporters, Voldemort was more interested in the other houses.

Harry Potter could not do badly in school, though neither could he do too well. Voldemort had no intention of wasting his time perfecting essays and attempting to score Outstanding in twelve NEWTs again. Such academic distinction required a diversion of effort from his real mission and had a chance of being suspicious to Dumbledore. Even if the man had no inkling that Voldemort was masquerading as Harry Potter, he would certainly begin to see parallels between them, and Voldemort knew that Dumbledore was one to watch carefully and take pre-emptive action if he saw the need.

In his third year he would take Care of Magical Creatures and Divination. Those were the two optional sets of elective classes he had not taken originally, though he had still passed both OWLs and NEWTs through self-study. The problem with self-study of course, was that he had learned all of the material for the exams several weeks beforehand and had forgotten it all directly after the fact.

According to the course catalogue, other new electives included Muggle Studies and Ancient Runes. Voldemort had taken Hogwarts's Ancient Studies elective in his youth, but it seemed that the class had been split up later and that the Ancient Rituals portion had been cancelled. He also did not see Magical Theory anywhere on the list. The class had been small even when he had been at Hogwarts because it required a great amount of dense reading and a rejection of the wand-incantation paradigm of magic, which had been more than students other than the most ardent of Ravenclaws had wanted to take on. It had probably been cancelled through a combination of a lack of interest and Ministry pressure to standardize magic use.

And indeed, as Lucius had said, Cursed Artefacts was nowhere to be found on the special seventh-year list of electives of interest. Alchemy, Pre-Mastery Independent Study, Enchantments, Warding, Medicine, Apparition, and Transformations remained on the list, though Voldemort doubted any of those had been met with much interest in the past few years, other than Apparition. The qualifications required for going into Ministry work had got much less stringent, and fewer wizards were embarking on post-graduation world tours, joining research groups, or apprenticing themselves out to earn masteries. Good connections had become more important than real qualifications. In that respect, wizarding Britain was deteriorating in comparison to the rest of the world.

Hearing voices coming his way, Voldemort folded up his parchment and tucked it back into his pocket. He stood and greeted the professor, turning his gaze curiously to the family that accompanied her. The parents, presumably both muggles, were dressed surprisingly formally. Their daughter looked rather unconfident; she was ducking her head all the while, occasionally sneaking an upward glance before again displaying the crown of her head, out of which sprung a copious mane of bushy brown hair. Voldemort found the mudblood distinctly unimpressive.

"Hi," said the girl shyly at last, holding out her hand. "I'm Hermione."

Voldemort took her hand and was surprised by her firm shake. "Eric," he replied, supposing that fellow students ought to be on first name terms.

"I'm oh so surprised to find out that I'm a witch. I'd no idea. I didn't even believe it at first. Did you know before? Oh what am I saying? Of course not! Are you excited?" said Hermione, all in one breath. Voldemort was somewhat stunned by her ability to spew so much useless information out so quickly. He did note that he had forgotten to ever express disbelief to McGonagall that he was a wizard. It was not a great oversight, but suspicion could be aroused by any small thing. He would need to be more careful in the future.

"Yes," he said to Hermione. Feeling that his answer was rather lacking, he added, "I suppose. The professor can turn into a cat."

"Really?" Hermione asked, amazed. "That must be very advanced. Will we learn about it, I wonder?"

"Probably."

"Oh, I can't wait to go. I wonder what other kinds of things we'll learn about!"

Voldemort did not respond, for Professor McGonagall seemed to have finished her discussion with Hermione's parents. She beckoned for them to follow her to the pavement. Looking around to make sure no other muggles were present—they weren't, as the father and daughter had already left the park—before she extended her wand arm and waited.

With a deafening BANG! the purple, triple-decker monstrosity known as the Knight Bus exploded into the street and screeched to a stop. The doors opened with a whoosh of released air and a very young man, still a boy, really, in a pinstriped conductor's uniform jumped out.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard! Ernie will take you anyplace in just a blink, don't you worry. I'm Stan Shunpike, and I will be your conductor today."

Professor McGonagall waited patiently through his speech, though Voldemort had no doubt she had heard it countless times before. He looked back at Stan Shunpike, who couldn't be more than seventeen years old. He must have come out of a school for magical transportation development, and been apprenticed to the driver, Ernie, who was a very old man with a shock of flyaway white hair and thick round spectacles perched on his nose.

"How much to the Leaky Cauldron?" Professor McGonagall asked him. Stan Shunpike looked them over.

"Thirteen sickles each, but for fifteen you get—"

"No thank you. Just the standard fare," Professor McGonagall said somewhat sternly. She paid him three galleons and a sickle for all of them and they got on the bus, Hermione's parents looking dubiously at rather disarrayed collection of armchairs on the bus floor. "It's perfectly safe." the professor assured as they all sat down.

Hermione looked around curiously, and then out one of the windows, as if searching for something. When she evidently did not find it, she turned to Voldemort.

"Where are your parents?" she asked. Voldemort supposed he would have been annoyed by such a question in his youth. He deadened his expression, blanking his mind momentarily.

"Dead."

Hermione looked horrified. Then the bus doors slammed shut and the vehicle surged forward, lost in a bumpy, wild mash of colours and shapes. Voldemort listened idly to the stop announcements as Hermione clutched the sides of her chair so tightly he thought she might rip through the fabric. As was typically illogical, the Knight Bus was going in alphabetical order, because whoever had designed the positioning of the portals had been an idiot. Currently, they seemed to be on the D's, which meant that it would be a little while before they reached London. Actually, though, the designer must have been a genius, because even Lord Voldemort did not know how it was possible for the Knight Bus to appear on any paved street at anybody's request. Clearly, the bus made copious use of void-space, but it had to be different from apparition, since the idea of anybody having enough willpower to apparate a bus was ridiculous.

Most of the people on the bus appeared either to be extremely old or squibs, or both (squibs could purchase special passes for signalling the Knight Bus, and he could see several men and women wearing them on strings around their necks). At the next stop a woman who was neither old nor a squib boarded with a large amount of luggage in tow and collapsed into a seat near theirs, looking rather exhausted. She shrieked when the bus took off again.

"This is ridiculous," Voldemort heard Hermione's father mutter distantly. The man yelled as the new woman's luggage flew into the air and straight at his head, somehow swerving away and missing at the last moment.

"Don't worry. The safety charms are some of the best!" Stan Shunpike called from the front reassuringly. Hermione's father was still staring at the wayward trunk now rattling around in the corner, stuck behind a large, puffy armchair. The woman to whom the luggage belonged did not look so happy either.

Hermione moaned as the bus lurched again. Voldemort rode the shocks as they dispersed through his body. It really was a rather awful method of transportation, but he had experienced worse sensations than some measly bouncing. On the bright side, they were in London now, and the bus had stopped shooting about void-space and was actually driving on the road, though the driver seemed to have some problems staying on it. Through the window Voldemort could see mailboxes and hedges jumping and swerving out of the way as the safety charms momentarily displaced them into all sorts of extra dimensions.

When they arrived at the front of the Leaky Cauldron, Hermione rushed off the bus and had to be supported by her mother while she panted and groaned. Her father did not seem much better off. Even Professor McGonagall looked a bit ill, though she thanked Stan Shunkpike and the driver before the bus went careening off again.

Professor McGonagall cast a steadying charm on Hermione and her father, and once they seemed better all four of them went inside, Hermione having been instructed to hold her parents' hands so they could be led through the muggle-repelling wards.

"We really have to go get tea, Hermione, come on. Let go!" her father had insisted desperately at one point as they were at the threshold of the wards. Voldemort felt annoyed, but Hermione seemed to find it funny. At last, they were through, and Professor McGonagall led them straight into the back alley behind the pub.

"Look closely," she said. "Three up and two across from the rubbish bin."

"What if the bin moves?" Hermione piped up. The professor paused. She pointed her wand at the trash can, gave it a flick, and raised her eyebrows.

"There is a permanent sticking charm on it," she informed them.

For some reason, Hermione stared at the rubbish bin now in consternation. Professor McGonagall tapped the proper brick and Hermione was quickly distracted as the wall seemed to fold in on itself before the bricks rearranged themselves into an archway.

Professor McGonagall swept her arm at the scene and stepped aside to let them get a better glimpse. "Welcome, to Diagon Alley."

* * *

A/N: Eh. I'm not so happy with this chapter. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless. I've been rather busy lately, so I apologize for the slower updates. And next time, there really _will_ be Durmstrang. I seem to have fallen into a pattern of alternating between Harry and Voldemort; does that seem fine to everyone? Also, it has come to my attention that I have been spelling "apparition" incorrectly since forever, never having realized that, given that the idea was literally to appear out of no where, it is merely an extra meaning for the word, and that "apparate" is just spelled with an "a" because of the verb ending "-ate." I feel silly.


	9. The Keep

**Things you need to know for this chapter:**

_"blah,"_ - German is being spoken, but I am writing it in English because I'm lazy and I doubt people want to read long strings of text in translation.

You should be able to find the translation for anything that is actually said in German (some short phrases for flavour) shortly afterwards in the text. It's meant to be contextually obvious, but if there are any problems please let me know.

ZAG (Zauberergrad) - the German version of OWLs.

UTZ (unheimlich toller Zauberer; for some reason there's no mention of it being a _test_ in the name...) - the German version of NEWTs.

Those are the official names in the (very literal) German translation, and I was too lazy to make up new acronyms, especially ones that actually mean things. I know that these technically apply only to Hogwarts, but we'll pretend that the tests are internationally standard. Suggestions for better test names are welcome.

OK, onward!

* * *

The morning of his first day, Harry's eyes snapped open and he sprang out of bed, got dressed, and stepped into the bathroom, only to realize that it was only just dawn. Annoyed and restless, he returned to his bed, extracted the orientation pamphlet from the pocket of dirty robes, and sat down to try reading the important parts, which he had forgotten to do the day before. Suddenly, he felt his insecurities rising back up. What if he couldn't understand what the professors were saying? What if he failed all of his classes? What if nobody liked him?

Harry sighed and tossed the pamphlet aside, unable to concentrate on the section about disciplinary measures. Durmstrang still used corporal punishment in lieu of detentions for serious offenses, unlike Hogwarts. At least Lord Voldemort wouldn't be at risk of getting caned if he misbehaved at Hogwarts, not that Harry could really imagine Lord Voldemort doing something childish like breaking school rules. Harry decided that he would try his very hardest never to break any school rules either. With that thought in mind, he retrieved the pamphlet again and flipped to the general rules.

Fortunately, they seemed reasonable enough. For example, every student was to respect the teachers, the headmaster, and his fellow students; dark arts were banned in the halls; cheating would result in harsh measures; anyone caught distributing or taking hallucinogenic potions would be expelled; etc. It did not seem too terribly difficult to Harry to stay within the confines of the rules.

There was a soft _pop_ nearby, and Harry turned to see Dobby standing beside his bed, wide green eyes darting back and forth.

"Harry Potter awake! Very good. Harry Potter is needing to use his hair-growth potion." Dobby told him. Harry blinked and reached up to his hair, which was still long and blond from yesterday's transfiguration. "Harry Potter is coming downstairs and Dobby is taking care of it."

"Well, all right, Dobby." Harry said. He took the elf's hand and they popped away before reappearing in the kitchen. For some reason, apparition with an elf was never as disorienting or painful as apparition with a human. Harry had no idea why, but he wasn't going to complain.

"Harry Potter is sitting down." Dobby said, pointing at the chair that had been pulled away from the kitchen table. Harry did as requested. With a snap of his fingers Dobby summoned a piece of cloth from the linen closet and draped it over Harry, tying it at the back. Then he summoned scissors and a bottle of viscous white substance, which he proceeded to slather on top of Harry's head. Within minutes, his vision had been obscured by hair of absurd length, draping down over his chin. A few snips of the scissors and Dobby had taken care of that problem.

Various techniques, magical or otherwise, all of which Harry did not understand, were employed by Dobby in the ensuing hour so that at the end of it, when Harry, stiff and practically stuck to his seat, was allowed to get up, step daintily over the ring of fallen locks about the chair, and hurry to the nearest bathroom, he was greeted with an almost unrecognizable sight in the mirror.

For one, he was now blond, with hair even paler than that which Lord Voldemort had transfigured. His hair was also no longer short and messy. Instead, it was rather unbecomingly long and hung in straight, limp clumps down to his chin.

"I look like a girl." he muttered. Harry Potter had actually only got glimpses of real girls a few times in his life, seeing as he did not get out often. Still, he had somehow managed to develop awareness of the difference between boys and girls all right. He knew, at least, that usually, boys had shorter hair and girls had longer hair.

"Harry Potter is looking like a noble wizard." Dobby corrected. Harry looked down at Dobby and supposed he oughtn't criticize the elf's hard work.

"You did a good job, Dobby." he said honestly. He looked nothing like he had before. Even if he still somehow resembled his father, there were so many people in the world that it could easily be a coincidence. And anyway, his hair wasn't even the right colour now. Something else occurred to him, suddenly. "What happens when my hair grows?"

"Harry Potter needs not worry." Dobby said. "Colour change potion changes real hair colour."

"Well, that's convenient." Harry replied, gingerly tugging a lock of hair away from his face and glancing at it through his peripheral vision. He supposed it looked all right. At least the length helped it no longer stick up in every direction. If he squinted, he thought he sort of looked like the picture of Lucius Malfoy in his self-updating copy of _The Pure-Blood Directory_, which listed modern pureblood families in Britain. Harry wondered who actually cared enough to be in charge of writing the new editions; it seemed like a horrible job. Nobody wanted to be told that their family actually _wasn't_ pure after all! Obviously the Potters weren't on the list anymore, since Harry, the only heir, was half-blood, but Harry hardly cared. Lord Voldemort had only made him read the book on principle of him not being totally ignorant when the time came for him to actually interact with people.

"Harry Potter must be getting ready." Dobby said, grabbing Harry's hand and apparating them both back to Harry's room. A snap of his fingers and Harry's Durmstrang uniform appeared, neatly folded, on the bed.

"It's six in the morning." Harry protested incredulously. He didn't have anything else to do, of course, but the pamphlet said clearly that the ship left at eight in his time zone!

"The ship is leaving at eight. Harry Potter is being there by seven for portkey." declared Dobby in a tone that brooked no objection. Mumbling sheepishly under his breath for having forgotten the early portkey for English students, Harry grabbed his robes and set about putting them on over his casual underclothing. He remembered with a grimace that he had not purchased a warming enchantment upgrade on his robes—he was regretting it now. But was it his fault that Lord Voldemort had not seen it fit to come back, not even to see him off? Harry felt an uncomfortable sting of something like betrayal, but he knew he was being silly. Lord Voldemort wasn't his father—he was Harry's Lord! Harry was lucky to get protection and an education. Anything else was purely in excess of the agreement.

Still, warming charms would have been nice. Harry cursed himself for being too good at saving money. He had no idea where he'd learned how to do it—perhaps it had something to do with never having been able to actually spend money anywhere before. He knew, theoretically, that if he imagined himself warm he should be able to cast the charm on himself, but he had also never had to try it while he was feeling extremely cold.

After a hearty farewell breakfast and a last-minute check for anything else he might want, Dobby gave him a tearful hug and extracted a promise to write home before closing his hand around Harry's and apparating them to the outskirts of London, where they exited the apparition point and moved, if the sign was to be believed, directly into the international portkey hub. Harry had never been in such place before, but it was not particularly interesting. A tired-looking customs wizard sat behind a tall counter and accepted wands for checking.

Harry stepped up to the counter, over which he could barely see, and passed over his wand. The wizard put it on a strange machine that looked like a set of scales but had a lot of dials on its base. A moment later, a tongue of parchment shot out of the back end of the machine.

"Cypress wood, phoenix feather core, 13 inches." said the man, handing Harry his wand back. "Durmstrang student. You're registered for the seven o'clock portkey to an unknown location. That's the green rope. You can't miss it."

"Thanks." Harry said, somewhat concerned at the part about "unknown location," but supposing that it was all part of Durmstrang's secrecy policy. He waved Dobby goodbye and gave him a last awkward handshake before the elf disappeared with a _pop_. Gripping the handle of his trunk more tightly, he walked past the counter and past small groups of rather bored people clustered around random objects. Finally, he found a group of students standing next to a liberal length of forest green rope, chatting quietly. At the very end were a boy and a girl who looked to be about his age, so Harry assumed they were also first years, and moved to join them.

"Er, hello." he greeted rather lamely. The girl turned a half-lidded gaze toward him and grunted. Harry winced at the reception. Fortunately, the boy seemed more interested in making conversation.

"Hi." he said, and stuck out his hand. "I'm Alvin Pyrites, a mudblood."

Harry blinked at this strange, illogical introduction. First of all, he was under the impression that "mudblood" was an offensive slur that muggle-borns didn't usually know about. Also, Harry had heard the surname "Pyrites" before. It was in _Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Geneology_, listed as a family that was extinct in the male line. He had noticed it because it was a strange name. Finally, Harry was sure that Durmstrang did not accept muggle-borns. Even if a muggle-born somehow managed to know about Durmstrang and send in the application in time, he surely would be rejected for some contrived reason, but really on account of being muggle-born.

Instead of voicing his confusion, Harry just replied, politely, "Harry… Branch." He held back a sigh of relief as he remembered his last name just in time. He shook hands with Pyrites and they lapsed into an awkward silence.

Finally, Pyrites gave a loud sigh. "I was ever so surprised to find out that I was a wizard." he said. Harry gave him a sideways glance. Was Pyrites _really_ a muggle-born? It still didn't quite seem possible to him. But he did not want to seem impolite.

So he said, "Oh. Why is that? Didn't you do any accidental magic?" he wanted to take back his question as soon as he'd voiced it—he knew that some people really didn't manage any magic before they went to school. He thought about Pyrites's surname again and decided that perhaps the Durmstrang administration had got confused when they had recognized the pureblood name. But that did not answer the question of how a muggle-born had known about the school in the first place.

"Well I did." said Pyrites, scowling. "But I didn't know what it was, did I? Not until Aunt Ellie told me all about it."

"So your aunt is a witch?" Harry asked. Maybe his parents were squibs, then. Harry was not sure if Pyrites still counted as muggle-born, but he certainly wasn't a half-blood either. A half-blood had to have at least one magical parent. But why ever would he want to go to Durmstrang instead of Hogwarts? Surely he had got an acceptance letter there?

"Yeah." Pyrites mumbled glumly. Harry didn't see what there was to be disappointed about.

"Oh." Harry replied, unsure of what else to say.

"You two might want to get a hold of the portkey soon." the girl interrupted them, holding up their end of the green rope in one hand. Harry grabbed a middle section as Pyrites took the very end.

"Thanks." he said. The girl did not reply. Harry decided that he still didn't like her, even if she had been helpful. A minute of uncomfortable silence later, there was a wrenching sensation behind Harry's navel and space began to spin wildly around them. Harry had only used a portkey twice before, but it had never taken this long or been this turbulent. The longer distance probably had something to do with it.

In any case, at last, when the passengers had been spun about to the point of nausea and severe dizziness, they arrived at their destination, falling on top of each other in a rather undignified heap, though Harry and the other two first years seemed to have got tangled up the worst, while the older students had known to stand at sufficiently distanced intervals. Harry would certainly remember next time.

"Braucht ihr Hilfe?" asked an imperious voice from above them. _Did they need help?_ Of course they needed help! Harry felt like his stomach had been turned inside-out, and he didn't think he could get up even if he tried. Still, he wanted to say "no" on principle, because whoever had spoken seemed unlikeable.

The English girl pushed herself off the pile, on which she had, of course, landed on top, collected her trunk, and stalked off without a word. Next to him, a dazed Pyrites mumbled, "Jaaa bitte…" _Yeah, please._

A hand made its way into Harry's field of vision, and he deduced that he was to take it. Then a strong grip pulled him up to his feet, and he finally managed to orient himself properly. But everything was blurry.

Belatedly, Harry realized that his glasses were skewed. Feeling himself flush in the cold morning air of wherever they were, he righted them and peered at his helper.

It was a boy, tall and stiff. He had a very pale complexion, rather severely cropped dishwater-blond hair, and shrewd, dark eyes.

"Mykola Ivanovych Kalashnik." he said, sticking out his hand. Obviously, he was introducing himself, but Harry wasn't sure he could quite reproduce any of the syllables that had just come out of the boy's mouth.

"Er…" Harry managed eloquently, before he regained his wits and managed to return the handshake. "Harry Branch." His name felt distinctly lacking next to Kalashnik's.

_"Do you come from England?" _Kalashnik proceeded to ask him. Harry nodded. _"I come from Ukraine." _ The boy informed them haughtily, before he turned to Pyrites. _"What's your name?"_

"Alvin Pyrites." said Pyrites. He did not mention anything about being a mudblood this time. Kalashnik nodded at him. Then he turned back to Harry.

_"Branch. I don't recognize your surname. You're not a half-blood, are you?"_ he inquired. Harry frowned.

_"So what if I am?"_ he replied. He _was_ a half-blood, after all, and if Myko-whatever could not suffer his impurity, then he would not hesitate to return the disregard.

But Kalashnik looked at him contemplatively. _"Well… you have a lord, then?"_ he asked, finally. Harry wondered what that had to do with him being half-blood. A pureblood might just as well be the ward of a lord, and a half-blood could himself _be_ a lord! Case in point: Lord Voldemort. And there were loads of people who weren't lords and didn't have lords either.

Harry replied cautiously, _"Yes_._"_ Kalashnik seemed to approve, for his stern expression relaxed.

_"Well, that's all right then."_ he said, smiling rather stiffly. Harry saw Pyrites shoot him a confused glance from out of the corner of his vision, and he wondered again if Pyrites really, _really_ had been like a muggle before. Or perhaps he was just having trouble with German, like Harry had had. Kalashnik did speak rather quickly. Anyway, it was obvious now that Kalashnik, while probably not a blood-purist, was extremely traditionalist.

"Let's find seats." said Kalashnik, suddenly, in accented English. Harry blinked at him in surprise. "I am learning English." he explained. "You would help me practice, I hope?"

"Er, sure. No problem." Harry replied. Pyrites echoed him with a muttered, "Yeah." Kalashnik gave them another tight-lipped smile and beckoned for them to follow him up the gangplank of the ship. It was an impressive affair, though there was an antiquated and even dilapidated air about it. The great bald masts towered above them and cast wide, cool shadows in the weak morning light. Long strings of greenish algae had tangled themselves with the wood, and streamed down eerily. How could they have got up there? And what had happened to the sails?

On the ship deck a tall boy who looked like a sixth- or seventh-year stood next to an open hatch, down which he slowly directed the gathered crowd of students one at a time. Harry was allowed to climb down the ladder before his two acquaintances, and he waited for them down in the narrow corridor at the bottom, earning some annoyed looks and light shoves for blocking the way until both Pyrites and Kalashnik arrived.

Doors lined the next hallway, and they quickly found an empty cabin to settle down in; their portkeys had been some of the earlier ones.

"When did your portkey get here?" Harry asked Kalashnik. The boy frowned for a moment before he seemed to understand.

"Six forty-five." he said. "I waited for the English." he further explained. Harry nodded, sitting down. Kalashnik took a seat on the bench next to him, while Pyrites sat across from them, fiddling with the latch on his trunk. He cracked it open a silver and reached inside, digging around until he pulled out a book, which he began to read.

"Why do you read _Hogwarts, a History_?" Kalashnik asked him. Harry ducked his head to peer at the title and saw that Kalashnik had been correct about Pyrites's reading material. Harry was somewhat mystified, considering their destination was Durmstrang, and they would probably never see the inside of Hogwarts in their lifetimes.

"It's interesting." Pyrites muttered, looking slightly embarrassed. "I was going to go to Hogwarts, but I… changed my mind."

"Well good. Hogwarts has many mudbloods." Kalashnik said decisively.

"Why?" Harry asked, wincing slightly at Kalashnik's comment. It was true, though. If Pyrites really was a pseudo-muggle-born, wouldn't Hogwarts have been the obvious choice?

"My grandfather willed me tuition and board for Durmstrang if I went." he said, shrugging. From the look on his face, Harry could tell that he had no idea why his late relation would have done such a thing.

"You… Branch. You are a half-blood. Why do you not go to Hogwarts?" Kalashnik asked Harry now. Harry shrugged and tried not to be offended, since Kalashnik seemed to mean well, as well as to think of a suitable answer. Then he remembered the truth, which was entirely innocuous.

"My Lord wished me to attend Durmstrang." he replied. "And call me Harry." Harry wanted as little to do with his strange new name as possible.

"I see. Well then." said Kalashnik, "you may call me Kolya."

Harry was relieved to hear that—he could pronounce it, for a change.

"Are you using potions for English?" Harry asked him. Kolya squinted before he shook his head.

"No potions. I have… ah… skin becomes red." he tried to explain.

"You're allergic?" Harry asked. Kolya shrugged.

"Yes. Allergic." he echoed. Harry suddenly felt pleased that he was not the only one who had problems with the language regiment.

"But your German is very good." he told Kolya. The Ukrainian shrugged again.

"I am learning since five years old." he informed Harry, who murmured "Wow," under his breath. They fell into silence, during which Harry watched Pyrites turn the page every minute or so in his book.

"Lasst uns Koboldstein spielen." Kolya said suddenly, setting down his trunk and opening it up. Harry went over the words in his head, somewhat confused. Kolya wanted to play…something stone? Of course—Gobstones! He had never played it before, but he knew the rules; it was difficult not to when the game featured in practically every other children's book.

_"I don't have any."_ Harry mumbled, as Kolya brought out a drawstring bag, out of which he dumped a nice set of coloured crystal stones.

_"We'll use mine."_ Kolya said.

_"I have some too."_ Pyrites interjected, taking out his own bag. They moved everything down to the floor and Pyrites drew the circle with his Gobstones magic marker. Then they each picked out a stone to serve as their shooter and Kolya and Pyrites put all of their stones into the circle. After a swift rock-paper-scissors tournament, in which Koyla and Pyrites got stuck in a minute of furious ties, it was finally determined that Pyrites, who had by then insisted they call him Alvin, would play first.

He threw his shooter and it skidded across the top of the stones before flying off. Smirking, Kolya took his own stone and narrowed his eyes carefully, before sliding it harshly across the ground, into the circle, and directly into an orange stone at the edge, which popped into the air and out of the circle as the original stone continued slightly over the line.

_"One point."_ he declared smugly.

Harry and Alvin soon found out that Kolya was extremely good at Gobstones. He had even won some sort of junior league competition last year. Harry was rather impressed. After having lost miserably six times and been covered over in nasty green slime, he could attest to the fact that Gobstones was a difficult and painful game.

"Ugh, this is nasty." Alvin muttered, poking at the muddy green substance that coated the entire front of his robes. It was supposed to wear off on its own after an hour, but Harry had to admit that he didn't fancy waiting another hour either. Kolya was blessedly free of slime except for a small splash on his right sleeve, which had been got because, in his words—_"I fail."_ If Kolya was a failure, Harry didn't want to know what he and Alvin were supposed to be.

Raising his hand to get rid of the slime, even though he wasn't much good at cleaning magic, Harry remembered his wand belatedly. Extracting it from his pocket, he pointed it at Alvin who scrambled to get out of its direct line of sight.

"I'm just going to clean it!" Harry protested, turning to track the movement. Imagining the smelly sludge gone under the power of his wand, he saw Alvin's robe front suddenly clear. The wand felt pleasantly warm in his hand. He grinned and pointed it now at himself, focusing again, and breathed deeply as the nasty smell disappeared. Magic seemed much, much stronger with a wand. Harry liked it quite a bit already.

"That's wicked." Alvin said, looking extremely impressed. Kolya seemed intrigued.

_"You can already do magic without words?"_ he demanded. Harry shrugged.

_"Well, I can't do any magic _with_ words."_ he replied, but Kolya didn't seem to believe him. He still had a thinking expression on his face.

_"Who is your lord?"_ he asked suddenly. Harry fidgeted uncomfortably.

"Er…" he grit his teeth and finally shook his head. _"I can't—I'm not allowed to say."_ he muttered. Kolya stared at him for a moment longer before he shrugged.

_"Your oath?"_ he asked. Harry said nothing. Technically, Lord Voldemort had never said anything about not revealing his allegiance, but Harry did have enough common sense to keep quiet. Kolya nodded to himself, apparently having taken the silence for assent. _"My father also our keeps our vassals under a stringent oath."_

Harry was hardly surprised to hear that Kolya's father was a lord. Kolya certainly acted haughty enough to be an heir to a powerful family.

Harry himself would have been an heir, had circumstance been different. For now, though he was officially a ward and vassal of Lord Voldemort, having sworn the oath of fealty just last year, he was not actually much of a real vassal—he certainly was not fulfilling his duties of service and protection, seeing as he had yet to have an education. It made him feel annoyingly indebted to Lord Voldemort for his generosity; because even if he was a nasty person on a fundamental level, Lord Voldemort had paid for Harry to attend Durmstrang, though he had not been obligated under the agreement to do anything for Harry other than give him a safe place to live. Then Harry told himself that he shouldn't feel bad, because he wasn't supposed to have taken the oath of fealty at all until he was an adult, though usually that was because children were born into vassalage anyway and bore the oath of their parents, not because of some misguided concern for minors.

_"What about you? You are an heir, yes?"_ Kolya turned to Alvin, who had been watching them speak curiously. Alvin flinched slightly and seemed to draw himself inward as he ducked his head.

_"I erm…"_ Alvin began, scratching his head. _"I'm the Pyrites family heir, I think."_

_"You think?"_ Kolya pressed. _"Is your father not the lord?"_

Alvin continued to hem and haw for a few moments. _"My father…"_ he mumbled.

_"Yes?"_ Kolya prompted, looking quite impatient. Harry looked away from Alvin and to Kolya. They both seemed like nice people, he thought. He didn't want Kolya not to like Alvin—it would be awful to be caught in the middle, at least. But Alvin was a self-proclaimed "mudblood" and Kolya was a powerful heir and clearly a staunch traditionalist. Harry felt dismay pooling in his gut as Alvin finally decided to give in.

_"My father's a squib!"_ he blurted out. Kolya looked quite surprised, as if that were the last thing he had expected to hear. It might really have been, Harry mused. Alvin was cringing slightly, as if expecting Kolya to suddenly strike him or something. But Kolya, to Harry's surprise, did not even spit at him in contempt or anything. Instead, he frowned as if trying to remember something.

_"Help me."_ he said suddenly to Harry, gesturing agitatedly. _"Pyrites. An English pureblood house."_

_"It's erm…"_ Harry had no idea how to say what he wanted to say in German. Finally, he settled on English, "extinct in the male line." Or it was supposed to be, anyway. He waved his hands about a bit. Kolya shook his head.

"I don't understand." he said.

"The men are dead." Harry tried, simplistically.

Kolya hummed contemplatively before he gave a triumphant "Ah!" and clapped his hands together. Then he turned to point at Alvin, who was still tugging at the hem of his robes nervously.

_"You are heir to a mesne lord! Vassal of the English Dark Lord."_ he explained. Harry's head snapped to look at him so quickly he almost twisted his neck.

_"What?"_ Harry and Alvin demanded very nearly simultaneously, though probably for different reasons. Kolya shrugged, withdrawing his arm and leaning back into his seat.

_"Obviously your grandfather was Lord Septimus Pyrites. He died in the service of the Dark Lord and left no eligible heirs, so you would be it. Thanks for reminding me, Harry." _Kolya informed them. Harry stared at him, mystified.

_"How did you know that?"_ he asked incredulously. Kolya was Ukrainian! Harry definitely didn't know anything about Ukraine, past its general location, so he was amazed that the boy seemed to know so much about English matters (which Harry also did not know much about).

Kolya just rolled his eyes. _"Standard stuff. I'm supposed to know about all of the main lords in Europe and their known vassals." _he said. _"England has seven living lords, I believe. Ukraine has nine." _He seemed proud.

"Cool." was all Harry could really say to that. Lords weren't really all that important in England, where most major Ministry officials were elected, but he supposed they did carry some influence and command respect, if only because of their wealth. Harry did not know what it was like in Ukraine, though it seemed that lords might have outright political power, if Kolya's behaviour was any indication.

Having apparently determined his companions' social statuses to his satisfaction, Kolya sported an amiable, if stiff smile on his face as he relaxed in his seat. Harry was relieved to see that Kolya didn't seem to be a blood-purist at all, after all.

Then two loud blasts of a foghorn assaulted their ears. The timbers about them creaked and groaned, and the ground swayed. Harry, who was still standing, stumbled and had to throw himself hastily at the bench, jarring his legs as he sat awkwardly. There was a sloshing sound and another powerful creak.

_"We're moving."_ Kolya remarked redundantly. There was an odd slurping sound and suddenly Harry felt his stomach drop down as he was lifted slightly into the air, before he landed heavily back on his seat. The view outside the metal-rimmed porthole abruptly shifted from gray sky to dark water, and the ship acoustics changed noticeably. Once the movement had stabilised itself, Harry stood again to peer out the porthole. He was met with an impenetrable wall of gloom. Disappointed at the rather boring reality of being underwater, he returned to his seat.

_"How long is it going to take to get there?"_ Harry asked.

"Four hours. Did you not read the…the parchments?" Kolya replied in English. Harry took that as an indication that he should help Kolya practice English—something he was quite willing to do. He still felt inadequate speaking in German. For lack of any guilty party, Harry blamed the Dark Lord Grindelwald, who had instituted Durmstrang's language reform. Logically, Harry knew that having to learn Russian or Latin wouldn't have been any easier, but he didn't care.

"I read _some_ of it." Harry said. He hadn't managed to get through all of it after all. Hopefully there wasn't any other important information he had missed.

"Even I read the whole thing!" Alvin said, grinning and running a hand through his hair. Harry scowled.

"Whatever. What now?" he muttered. Kolya shook his Gobstones bag in the air, but Alvin made a face.

"No thanks, mate." he said. "I think—"

What exactly Alvin thought was not to be revealed, as there was a loud knock on the cabin door at that moment, before it opened up.

_"Excuse me!" _It was a tall boy with an open face and long golden hair emanating in a wild mane from his scalp. _"Do any of you have a quill I can borrow?"_

Harry assented, "Ja, doch," just as Kolya demanded, _"How did you already lose all of your quills?" _Harry thought that that was rather impolite of Kolya, seeing as the boy at the door was an upper year, but he only laughed sheepishly and said something in an unfamiliar language. Kolya snorted and replied back in what was apparently the same language, leading Harry to conclude that it must be Ukrainian.

Kolya turned to his trunk and opened it up, rooting around inside before coming up with a rather expensive-looking red-feathered quill, which he passed to the other boy, who gave him a lazy salute before leaving and shutting the door behind him.

"What was that about?" Harry asked. Kolya waved a hand dismissively.

"That is Sergey Savchenko. He is our ward." Kolya explained. Harry nodded.

"What's that?" Alvin inquired.

"Ward is another word for vassal." Harry said.

"Oh. What are vassals exactly anyway? Aunt Ellie never really explained that stuff…" Alvin continued. Harry opened his mouth to answer, but found himself rather short of concise responses.

"Erm, it's complicated. There'll probably be a book in the library about it." he said instead. Alvin sighed and shrugged.

"I'll figure it out eventually." he replied somewhat gloomily.

Honestly, Harry thought it probably was not important for his future career that Alvin did not know all about it; magical vassalage and lordship was on the decline, owing to the few people who were willing to form such great bonds of trust with others and the swift change in the political climate during the past century, at least in England. Harry still wasn't quite sure what had happened, but Lord Voldemort complained about it every few days. It had something to do with Ministry regulations and general ignorance.

"I am hungry." said Kolya, interrupting. "What time is it?"

"Nine o'clock." Alvin told him, glancing at his wristwatch. Kolya grunted.

"Too early. Do you want to play a game?" he asked. Harry thought about suggesting Exploding Snap, but then remembered that he had left his deck behind because he hadn't expected to have anybody to play it with, which in retrospect seemed silly, seeing as Durmstrang was full of other children his age. Still, he didn't actually like Exploding Snap very much; it was just about the only game he had managed to teach Dobby to play. The elf didn't seem to understand the point of games.

"Let's play old maid." said Alvin.

"What is that?" Kolya asked. Harry shrugged, indicating that he would also like to know.

"It's a card game." said Alvin. He opened up his trunk again and took out what looked like an ordinary deck of cards. "Muggle, I guess."

"Muggle?" Kolya repeated dubiously.

Alvin did not appear to notice Kolya's reservations, because he went on to explain the rules, which were simple enough, and cajole them into playing. Harry thought it sounded kind of stupid, even though he had nothing against muggles.

He changed his mind when they started playing. Getting rid of the old maid required a great deal of cunning trickery, and soon enough all three boys, who had moved back down to the floor for convenience, were crowing delightedly at each other. So far, Harry and Alvin had each lost twice and Kolya once, and Harry had hit his head three times on the edge of the bench.

Then Sergey Savchenko came back, accompanied by a giggling, dark-haired girl, to return Kolya's quill, and Alvin declared that he was tired of playing cards. Harry pried his stiffly crossed legs off the floor and pushed himself back onto the bench in relief, glancing outside the porthole curiously as a swarm of frog-like monstrosities with bulging eyes and long fangs leered at them from behind some wavy kelp.

"Grindylows." Kolya commented, grinning. "As on my family crest." He held out his hand and Alvin and Harry obligingly made impressed sounds as they leaned forward to study the stylized water creature etched onto the round silver ring along with several unrecognisable letters. _"I hope I am with Professor Pavlichenko. His mascot is a grindylow."_

Alvin shrugged and made an "eh" sound. _"I'd rather be in Professor Schröder's house. Griffins!" _he replied, smiling rather dreamily at the last word.

Harry, for his part, was rather confused. _"Durmstrang has houses?"_

Alvin snorted, and Kolya looked at him as if he were an idiot. Harry shrugged defensively. So what if he hadn't read the orientation pamphlet entirely?

_"Not exactly." _Kolya said. _"But each dorm is assigned a professor and has its own mascot."_

_"Sounds like houses to me." _Alvin said. _"Anyway, Harry, you should really read your pamphlet. Come on, there's almost two hours until we get there. You have plenty of time."_

Seeing that the two boys seemed serious about him not making a further fool of himself, Harry extracted his rather rumpled pamphlet from his trunk and flipped to where he had left off reading it in order.

Apparently, Durmstrang had anywhere from ten to fourteen small dormitory areas in use at any one time, staffed by the teachers who taught the various electives. Professor Pavlichenko was the master of the Ancient Studies dormitories, whose mascot was, indeed, the grindylow, and Professor Schröder was the master of the French dorms. Students were assigned dorms based on their interests, which could and apparently often did change from year to year.

"Are you taking French?" Harry asked Alvin.

"No." admitted the boy, shaking his head. "I just like griffins."

Harry supposed that, since he was taking two electives, Mathematics and Divination, that he would either be in the demiguise or augurey dorms. Privately, he hoped for the former, because he didn't fancy being stuck together with a bunch of divination nuts. The majority of divination, including astrology, crystal-gazing, xylomancy, necromancy, and anything other than arithmancy, really, was of no interest to Harry.

"So what electives are you taking, then?" Harry asked Alvin.

"Er… Magical Theory, Astronomy, and Herbology. What about you guys?"

"Maths and Divination." Harry replied, disappointed that he definitely would not be Alvin's roommate.

"Ancient Studies, Mathematics, Magical Theory, English, and Gobbledegook." Kolya said. Harry and Alvin gaped at him.

"Five?" Harry demanded incredulously, while Alvin exclaimed, "Gobbledegook!"

"Yes." Kolya said, shrugging. "It is not that hard." he added, for Alvin's benefit. "I already know a little. Ga bladvak da vost da noptrik." he then pronounced. It sounded vaguely like he was trying to cough up phlegm. Harry and Alvin stared.

"So what does that mean?" Harry asked, finally.

"Do not throw a pickaxe in a hole." Kolya translated. Harry was still bemused, and Alvin did not seem to be faring much better. "It is a goblin proverb."

"So what does it mean?" Harry asked again.

Kolya grinned and shrugged. "No idea." he said.

"Do you think I could add classes even if I didn't pick them earlier?" Harry asked, feeling suddenly somewhat insecure for having chosen to take only two electives. He hadn't wanted to overstress himself in a new environment. Alvin shrugged unhelpfully.

"Yes, but you must speak with the professor." Kolya informed him. "Do not worry about too many classes. Father says that the first year is always easy."

Harry nodded with some relief, though he was hesitant to believe the qualitative statement. Perhaps Kolya and his father were simply genii. Kolya did seem to know a lot of things.

"Hey, keep reading the pamphlet." Alvin reminded him, pointing accusingly at the packet lying unattended on the bench. Harry scowled and picked it back up, flipping to a new page and scanning the information there. He seemed to have found himself on the page about Durmstrang's curiosities.

"What's a tomte?" Harry asked, scratching his chin. Apparently, each of the houses had a resident tomte.

"Oh yeah, I was wondering that too." Alvin said. They both looked expectantly at Kolya, who rolled his eyes.

"I _think_," and he put great stress on his only thinking, "it is like a _domovyk_. A poltergeist."

Harry hummed thoughtfully. "So it's annoying?"

"I read about a poltergeist named Peeves who lives at Hogwarts." Alvin mentioned. Kolya scowled and shook his head.

"No. I do not think…" He waved his hands around in the air in frustration for a moment before he switched back to rapid German, which left Harry slightly confused. Apparently, anyway, a _domovyk_ was different from a poltergeist because it was also protective and helpful if one respected it, and a tomte was supposed to be the same way. Then Kolya said some unflattering things expressing his disdain for Hogwarts's practice of keeping an actual troublemaking poltergeist around, Harry and Alvin nodding along to his rant.

Alvin then pointed out _again_ that Harry had got distracted, and in order to prevent any further problems, Kolya dragged him over to the other side of the room and began teaching him to play a card game which used flashy triangular cards and apparently was to proceed in complete silence.

The pamphlet was not as boring as Harry thought it would be, and when he treated it as language practice, he felt better about reading it, since he knew he needed the extra work. The overall theme of the booklet involved repeated emphasis that people who were struggling in class or getting bad grades should ask for help. Skipping over those sections that made him uncomfortably nervous about failing, Harry found the rest of it fairly enjoyable. Over the next hour he learned all about Durmstrang's dining options (of which he apparently had the standard one with three meals a day), the basics of navigating the four-story stone keep and the extensive grounds, the extracurricular options offered, and a myriad of other trivia. Harry decided that he would stay away from the Gobstones club, but might try out broom-racing or even Quidditch, if possible, though he didn't doubt the popular sport was dominated by upper-years.

A loud, vicious curse from Alvin made Harry look up as he found himself on the last few pages, which listed all sorts of useful resources. He found Kolya slumped over in silent laughter and Alvin practically red in the face.

_"How do you keep winning?"_ he demanded. Kolya grinned.

_"I'm lucky."_ he said. _"Really lucky. There was this one time…"_

Apparently, Kolya was good at all sorts of games, and not just Gobstones. Harry made a note never to play anything serious with him.

A knock sounded on the cabin door, and, seeing as Kolya and Alvin were still preoccupied, Harry stood up to open it, wondering if maybe Sergey Savchenko and his friend were back. Instead he was faced with a tall, bearded man levitating several large trays of pastries before him.

_"Snacks, anyone?"_ asked the man in a very deep voice. As if he had apparated, Kolya suddenly appeared beside Harry, one outstretched hand clutching a galleon and the other reaching for a swirly, crumbly tart covered in sugar. Harry watched, somewhat taken aback as the Ukrainian boy bought himself an entire plate of sweets.

Spying a few sandwiches and wraps on the bottom tray, Harry withdrew a sickle from his pocket and got himself a bit of bread with lettuce, ham, and cream wedged inside. Neither Dobby nor Lord Voldemort ever ate sweets (not that Harry had ever seen Dobby consume something other than raw cabbage, anyway), so Harry only come into contact with cake and the like when Bella and Rudy came over, because Bella was obsessed with confectionary goods and liked to have Dobby baking at every waking moment. Dobby always gave some to Harry, and Harry always ate whatever he was given, but he was not particularly partial towards sweets.

"You're barmy." Alvin told Kolya as the boy sat down with his large assortment of cakes and pastries. Kolya smirked.

"Do you want one?" He held out something that Harry, to his surprise, actually recognized as a pumpkin pasty. Alvin looked at it hesitantly for awhile before he took it with a nod of thanks. "You?" Kolya turned to Harry, who shook his head, holding up his sandwich-thing.

"I'm fine." he said, chewing on a bit of bread. It was soft and buttery, which he hadn't quite expected, and some of it crumbled into his lap.

Having finished his food, Harry stood up uncomfortably and attempted to brush the breadcrumbs unobtrusively from his lap. They tumbled to the floor and into the cracks between the boards. He took several steps over to the far wall so he could peer out of the porthole. Outside was a seamless mass of impenetrably dark water. There was no sign of any grindylows or even kelp. He felt suddenly claustrophobic, sitting in a little ship cabin lit dimly by _lumos_ enchantments on the ceiling as if it were night time, but aware that it was really not even noon. It was an odd contradiction.

Something rushed past Harry's field of vision outside, and he focused more intently on the gloomy waters. Ears perking up, he realized that the sloshing sound that had blurred into the background hours ago had got more insistent or perhaps changed somehow.

"We're going up, I think." he said.

"Really?" Alvin murmured dubiously, glancing at his watch. Harry waited for a verdict, but Alvin didn't say anything else. Kolya yawned loudly and Harry turned to his plate, finding it pristinely clean, almost unnaturally so. How had the boy eaten so quickly? And so perfectly, for that matter?

"_You had better start speaking more German._" he said suddenly, turning to Harry. "_You also have problems with the language potions, do you not?_"

Unsure at first whether to feel offended or pleased that Kolya had noticed, he decided that the boy was giving him legitimate advice, and so Harry shrugged. "_Yes. I'll try._" he said. He knew he would have to do a good deal more than merely try; he would work hard, and he would succeed, without stupid potions. Muggles learned foreign languages too, didn't they? If a muggle could do it, then so could he.

The sloshing turned to an erratic rushing, and Harry could feel the floor shifting beneath his feet lightly, not enough to unbalance him but still clearly indicating a change in movement. For a moment, he felt his stomach drop uncomfortably as he seemed almost to levitate off the floor; then the ocean water flew by out the porthole in a kaleidoscope of dim colours—Harry had never known there were so many shades of murkiness—and suddenly there was a long sheet of falling water and grey, cloudy sky and the groaning and creaking of the masts as the great ship surfaced and shook off torrents of brine.

A few minutes later, they found themselves lined up with their trunks in hand, ready to climb back onto deck. A different older student from the one who had helped them enter made sure that only one person took the narrow ladder at a time. He had his wand out, ready to catch any falling people or luggage with levitation charms, which was a good thing as Harry had already almost got smacked on the head by a wayward trunk twice.

Then it was his turn, after Kolya, and he found himself breathing deeply in the cold air outside, quite refreshing after spending so many hours in the musty, airtight belly of the ship. They were ushered down the gangplank, told to go in single file.

As Harry and Kolya reached the bottom, a loud splash and a scream came from behind them, and they turned just in time to see a girl who was probably a seventh year fish a drenched, rat-faced boy out of the harbour with a disapproving expression on her face. Harry winced; falling into the likely freezing-cold water could hardly have been pleasant.

_"Learn from your mistakes, Poliakoff!"_ the girl yelled. Harry turned away when he felt a hand grasp his—it was Kolya.

_"Come on, we are going to fall behind." _

Harry glanced down the path and ascertained that Kolya was right. They hurried to catch up with the rest of the winding line of students, who were already beginning to disappear behind a cluster of tall fir trees.

Their first glimpse of the Durmstrang Keep came gradually out of the mist so that by the time they made it to the bottom of the great crag on which it rested and saw it in its entirety, it seemed as if the head of an enormous monster had suddenly emerged out of the mountain face to loom above them. The winking lights of hundreds of lit windows only added to the eerie effect, as if so many eyes were gazing down upon them.

All of the students were gathered in a gigantic muddle at the base of the nearly vertical cliff, and Harry searched through the crowd for Alvin in vain. It was all he could do to keep a hold on Kolya's hand.

Suddenly, an authoritative voice thundered over the dull roar of conversing students. "ACHTUNG!" Everybody quieted and paid attention, as commanded, though Harry wasn't sure where the voice had even come from.

_"FIRST YEARS TO THE FRONT!"_ shouted the voice. Harry and Kolya pushed their way hesitantly through the throng of taller students. Harry hoped that "the front" happened to be the way they were facing. He caught a glimpse of several other people moving in the same direction, and felt somewhat reassured.

The speaker turned out to be a tall man with a severe, pointed beard, a thick, furry hat, and a long, woollen mantel. Once it seemed like all the first years had assembled, he pointed his wand to his throat and muttered, "_Quietus._" Harry surreptitiously dragged Kolya along towards where he had spotted Alvin.

_"That's the deputy headmaster, Igor Karkaroff."_ Kolya whispered to him. Harry nodded.

_"Can all the first years hear me?" _Konrektor Karkaroff called. A murmur of assent travelled through the crowd. _"Good. You will all proceed up the path in an orderly fashion. Any pushing or shoving will result in disciplinary action."_

Harry felt that anybody who talked about "disciplinary action" on the first day was a rather unlikeable sort, but as the man began to direct them up the path, which he hadn't even noticed before, Harry changed his mind. He wouldn't want any pushing or shoving to happen either, considering the path was literally barely wide enough for both his feet and cut up the side of the crag quite steeply. There was a short iron railing separating them from the gorge, but it was a little less safe than Harry would have preferred.

Climbing up was also more strenuous than Harry had expected. Since he was shut inside the house most of the time, Harry had never had the opportunity to get much exercise, and he found himself trying to keep in his tired panting and press on as neither Kolya nor Alvin appeared to be having much difficulty. By they time they made it to the top of the winding path, Harry was wheezing and clutching his side, pride forgotten, and even his friends, who were apparently much fitter than he was, looked winded and glad that the walk was over.

At the front gates of Durmstrang, they were greeted by a clean-shaven man who looked distinctly Asian.

_"Everyone here? Good. I am Healer Wei, and I hope never to see any of you in the hospital wing."_ There was a smatter of nervous laughter._ "Now, line up and come to me one by one. State your name and year, and I will give you your dormitory assignment. Afterwards, please enter and remain in the front hall."_

Having composed himself somewhat, Harry joined the quickly forming line with Kolya before him and Alvin after him. When he reached the front, he only stumbled slightly over his name—_"Howard Branch, first year." _Relieved, he took the slip of paper the smiling Healer Wei handed to him and hurried to catch up to Kolya, who was walking much more quickly than he had a right to after they had just gone up a mountain.

_"Where are you?"_ he asked Kolya, looking down at his own paper. Harry was in the Demiguise dorm with Professor Oswin Hausdorff as the master. He cheered privately—no weird divination-obsessed roommates for him.

_"Demiguise."_ Kolya replied. He snatched up Harry's paper and nodded at it, looking pleased.

Alvin joined them a moment later, glancing over their shoulders and groaning in disappointment. _"I got the Unicorn dorms with Professor Wolf. That's herbology, I think."_

Harry sighed. He had known that Alvin would be in a different dorm from him, since he was taking wildly different electives. Still, he felt some disappointment that they would be separated. At least Kolya had luckily landed in the same place as Harry. And anyway, Harry reminded himself, they would have all of their core classes together, so it wasn't as if they wouldn't ever see each other.

They made their way to the back of the entrance hall and waited. The ceiling was high, so high it disappeared into blackness as Harry looked up, though he glanced away quickly, unnerved. The walls were made of uniform stone that had been melted together, likely by magic, and at intervals there were severely cut torch brackets burning with blue flame and casting everybody's faces in an eldritch glow. The atmosphere remained as subdued as the lighting.

Eventually, as they all stood there in silence and whispers, the hall began to fill up again, first with the second years and then with a rush of students, tall and short, until at the back of them Konrektor Karkaroff appeared, clearing his throat and immediately drawing everybody's attention as he spoke with a magically amplified voice.

_"The doors to the assembly chamber will now open. First years, enter and sit in the first two rows, and only the first two rows."_ he said clearly. With a creak, the gigantic, wooden double doors to Harry's left swung open slowly, and he and his friends made for it at a casual pace, though Harry had the irrational desire to run inside. What if there weren't enough seats?

There were more than enough seats. Unlike the entrance hall, the assembly chamber was lined with wide, single-paned windows on two sides and so was brightly illuminated by the noonday sun, so much so that Harry had to shield his eyes at first as he entered. All of the first years probably could have fit in the first row, but most of them seemed to have elected the second one. Harry would have done likewise, but Kolya pulled him and Alvin front and centre so that they sat directly before the stage, on which a raised podium had been set up.

_"I expect the rector will be giving a speech."_ Kolya told them. _"I heard he's very secretive. Father didn't know much about him."_

Interest piqued, Harry sat more erectly in his seat and waited with extra anticipation. He turned to see the second years seat themselves in the rows behind them, and then the third years, and so on. Then he returned his gaze to the podium.

A minute or so after everyone was seated, Konrektor Karkaroff entered and shut the doors with a wave of his wand.

Then, out of a long, straight crack in the back of the wall, black mist began to seep. It billowed about menacingly, so that a chorus of startled whispers rose from the first years, before it coalesced into a human-like shape. Finally, it revealed itself to be a hooded figure holding a tall, ornamental staff. The person coughed to clear his throat and banged the bottom of the staff on the ground. The room fell silent, all eyes upon the apparition.

_"Well."_ he said, leaning back casually against the wall. _"It seems that despite everything we remain under the shadow of Lord Grindelwald."_

Some snickers arose from the back. Harry was rather startled by this strange statement, until he took a closer look at the crack in the wall and realized, quite abruptly, that the split was merely a centrepiece; around it was painted in deep blue a perfect circle enclosed by an equilateral triangle—it was Grindelwald's mark, etched boldly into the back wall and blending in rather nicely with the rest of the décor.

_"I know, I say it every year. Now, time for the actual speech."_ The figure coughed again and reached up, whereupon a sheaf of papers appeared out of nowhere. He held them up to his hood and seemed to stare quizzically before he walked up to the podium and shuffled them about a little. There was silence for a long, rather awkward while.

_"There, I've found it."_ said the man, chuckling slightly. _"You older years will excuse me if you've heard most of this before. One can only change so much by the time one finds oneself at the fifty-fourth draft…"_

There was a smattering of quiet laughter around the hall.

_"First and foremost—though I suppose I've already said some things—anyway, I want to welcome you all to Durmstrang. Welcome, new students; and old students, welcome back. I am Rektor Nathan, but please, call me Nate. I'm the one in charge here…I think, anyway. I won't tell you what to do or not to do, since I had that printed on the pamphlets, which you all should have read."_

At this, Harry felt Alvin nudge him slightly, causing him to scowl.

_"Instead, I will only advise that you use the vast resources provided to you here at Durmstrang to their fullest extent. There is no reason why any of you should not succeed. We, the staff, are committed to helping you along and encouraging you to work at your full potential. You are all part of a bright new generation of magical minds, and as you extend yourselves academically, you will find that you have aided the growth of the greater body of magic. So: never give up!"_

Harry's eyes flicked from Rektor Nathan—or Nate, he supposed, though it was odd to find an adult who did not want to be called by his title—to the back wall again, where Grindelwald's symbol stood carved. He wondered if it really was permanently ingrained in the wall, or if Nate didn't actually mind having it around. Hadn't Grindelwald's creed been, "For the Greater Good," and that of course a greater magical good? Harry felt uncomfortable speculating even as the man spoke, but he couldn't help his sudden inclination, almost conviction, that Nate had once been a Grindelwald supporter. Then again, who was Harry to judge? He supposed that he himself was a supporter of Lord Voldemort. And wasn't Lord Voldemort also a dark lord?

For some reason, Harry had never thought of it in quite that way before. It made him feel suddenly uncomfortable.

_"…now, I'm sure you're all eager to get settled in, so we'll have a short introduction to your professors and then off to the dormitories with you."_ Harry glanced up, startled as silence fell over the hall again. Nate had finished his speech. The rector gathered his parchments again and then disappeared back into a cloud of black fog.

_"How is he doing that?"_Alvin murmured in wonderment. Harry shrugged.

_"It's a projection spell."_ Kolya said from Harry's other side. _"I've seen Father use it before. That means he wasn't actually here."_

_"Weird."_ Harry replied absently. At this point, Konrektor Karkaroff stepped up to the podium and cleared his throat.

_"I am Professor Karkaroff, the deputy headmaster and professor of Russian and UTZ-Transfiguration. All of the staff members are listed in the directory on a bulletin board in each common room, but for your convenience," _he scowled slightly at this point, _"we will introduce ourselves so that you may better recognize us."_

The introductions were rather boring, but Harry paid attention because he didn't want to go around like a fool with no idea who any of the professors were. To make it more confusing, the professors were not introduced by order of subject, but in alphabetical order by last name. Thus Harry learned at the very start that there were two Professors Bauer, and that they were not related to each other in any way and actually rather disliked each other. Fortunately, they both taught UTZ-level classes and language classes Harry was not taking, so he could avoid the trouble entirely, at least for the moment.

Harry made sure to memorize the flyaway brown hair and sharp green eyes of Professor Hausdorff, his dormitory master and future mathematics (and apparently, arithmancy) instructor, and was relieved to be able to identify him immediately in the crowd of professors as the students gathered to leave for their dormitories.

Professor Hausdorff smiled at them warmly and waved them over to the far side of the hall. _"Welcome to Demiguise, the esteemed abstract tower. Everyone here?"_ He raised his wand and gave it a flick, before nodding in approval. _"Good, let's go."_

* * *

A/N: A thank you to all my readers... and I emphasize, please **read and review!** If you've got all the way to this point and you've favourited/followed the story already, take a moment to indicate that you're still reading (you've wasted your time reading the chapter anyway). Getting reviews tells me that people remain interested in the story, and that I should continue writing. I myself still enjoy working on this fic, but I get much more pressure to update when I know people are waiting to see the next chapter. So here's a hint: reviewing equals faster updates and happier author.**  
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	10. Opening Move

Lord Voldemort stared at the wand in his hand, wondering if he had made the right choice. Holly, eleven inches, phoenix feather core. It was the brother wand to his own.

It had not chosen him.

As he walked out of Ollivander's, Hermione chattering excitedly beside him to her parents about the mythical properties of vine wood, on which Ollivander had previously expounded, and Professor McGonagall leading the way with a stiff smile on her face, he was unable to determine whether he had taken a step forwards or backwards, as far as Albus Dumbledore was concerned.

When Garrick Ollivander had got that intrigued glint in his eye, Lord Voldemort had known instinctively that something was different about the smooth, warmly polished wand. He had been practicing legilimency for long enough that he knew it was wise to listen to those uncanny feelings. Though he felt just about the same amount of connection to this wand as to half the others in the shop—the vague, calm sense that it would operate for him, but was certainly not _his wand_—he imagined a shower of golden sparks, and felt the wand warm satisfactorily as it followed his command.

"Curious." Ollivander had said. And so Lord Voldemort learned that he held the brother wand in his hand, and was himself quite curious to know more. But Ollivander was tight lipped, and Lord Voldemort did not dare press on with Professor McGonagall and the mudblood hovering in the background. So he paid for the wand with seven galleons out of his orphan fund (he was appalled at the apparent inflation, remembering that in his youth he would have killed for _seven galleons_), and they left the shop.

Dumbledore and Ollivander were acquaintances, at least. He did not know if they had further ties. Had Dumbledore expected Harry Potter, the supposed vanquisher, to hold the brother wand? The name was deceptive, anyway; wands with the same core were usually crafted with diametrically opposite woods. What exactly that meant was up to the discretion of the wand maker, given the wide range of interpretation, but it was most often the case that a person's enemy, or at least somebody he disliked, would get his brother wand.

Then Lord Voldemort remembered that Dumbledore, and by extension Ollivander, could not possibly have known that he was Harry Potter. He himself was not supposed to know that. Lord Voldemort occluded his knowledge continuously, which meant that Ollivander could certainly not have found anything suspicious in his mind with a mere few superficial sweeps of legilimency, which would cover only the most benign of conscious thoughts.

It was still possible, however, that either Ollivander was interested in seeing whose hands the holly wand would go into, since he remembered selling its yew brother to Lord Voldemort, or that Dumbledore was interested in it and had told Ollivander to keep an eye out. Lord Voldemort had no way of knowing at the moment which was the case.

At any rate, McGonagall seemed to be concerned; there was extra tension in her gait, and she had ceased voluntarily explaining the sights and sounds of Diagon Alley to the muggle couple and their daughter.

Suddenly, it occurred to Lord Voldemort that McGonagall had recognized him. He had noticed before that Harry looked a bit like James Potter, but the resemblance had never struck him as clearly as it apparently did the transfiguration professor, perhaps because he hadn't known the man personally. Had anybody else recognized him, then? It would lift a layer of deception off his shoulders, at least, to be identified as Harry Potter, but it raised all sorts of other, heretofore nonexistent problems, including the possibility that Ollivander had recognized him after all. He would rather be free of the identity issue entirely, though he knew it was necessary.

Lord Voldemort wondered when McGonagall would decide to verify that he was Harry Potter.

As soon as possible, as it turned out, was the answer to that. After getting knocked around again on the Knight Bus, they dropped Hermione and her parents off at their home and Professor McGonagall got to business.

"Mr. Jones, do you remember your parents?" she asked. Lord Voldemort did his best to arrange his face into something rather offended.

"Why?" he demanded. Professor McGonagall looked rather pained.

"Mr. Jones, I really do think you aren't—your name isn't what you think it is. But I may be wrong; please, tell me if you remember—anything."

Frowning, Lord Voldemort replied, after a pause, "Well, no, ma'am. But I've always been called Eric. And Jones." he said in an insistent tone.

Professor McGonagall pursed her lips. "Would you mind terribly if we did a bit of test, then?"

"What kind of test?" he shot back suspiciously, clutching his bag of newly purchased supplies more securely in his hand.

"It's very simple." she reassured him quickly. "You only need to hold a rod for a few minutes. We will have to do it in Professor Dumbledore's office."

Lord Voldemort took a second to figure out what to do next. He decided to keep his expression rather negative, though not outright hostile. He remembered also that he was supposed to act like an ignorant muggle-born. "Professor Dumbledore?" he asked. McGonagall looked startled, and moved to better explain the entire process.

Hogwarts was a beautiful sight. Lord Voldemort was still moved by the magical castle in a way he had never been by anything else. As they stepped across the ward line, he felt as if he were being welcomed home, and only belatedly managed to make some suitably impressed sounds for McGonagall's benefit, though she barely seemed to notice. Up the wide steps and through the grand doors they went, down familiar corridors and passages, to stop at last before a tall, stone gargoyle.

Albus Dumbledore looked old. In fact, he looked a decade older than he had the last time Lord Voldemort had seen him in person—quite logical, seeing as it had been about eleven years. The wrinkles lining his face had deepened, and his white mane of hair had grown wispier. Lord Voldemort could not read his expression as Dumbledore handed him the twisted copper rod, which he obligingly held vertically above his head.

The long, black string connecting the rod to a small box wriggled, and a puff of smoke seeped out of the edges of the box before a slip of parchment shot out of the slit at the top. Dumbledore's expression turned grave.

"Harry James Potter." he read.

The entire matter was conducted quite secretively, or at least there was no fanfare surrounding it. No reporters or ministry officials erupted out of the stone walls to interrogate him. Nor, indeed, was "Eric Jones" ever asked whether he wanted to be called "Harry Potter" from then on or if he wanted to go live with his mother. It all was decided for him and happened very quickly.

Standing uncertainly in front of Lily Potter, Voldemort regretted not protesting. It was another one of Albus Dumbledore's games, he was sure; any normal child would have been outraged at the disregard.

Perhaps it could be attributed to shock, Lord Voldemort reassured himself. He had not lost quite yet. He needed to get into the mindset. That was all.

Narrowing his eyes, he licked his lips, as if feeling uncomfortable. "So you're my mother?" he asked doubtfully.

Lily Potter burst into tears. Taken aback, Lord Voldemort paused for a moment, thinking furiously. Why was she crying? He was certain she was saddened, not angered. His words had been the cause. But he had only been asking a question—rhetorical, maybe, but it might as well have been for confirmation or security. The closest possibility Voldemort could entertain was that Lily Potter was displeased that he was not immediately acknowledging her as his mother.

And what would her real son do in this situation? The first response that, unhelpfully, came to mind was: "I thought she was supposed to be in the loony bin!"

Actually, that was a valid point. Lord Voldemort, like everybody else, had heard that Lily Potter had been living in the Janus Thickey ward for the past decade. But the neat, fiery-haired witch dressed in black work robes of a practical cut looked quite the opposite from addled or permanently spell-damaged, if one excused her current lack of composure as she sobbed uncontrollably into a dark green handkerchief.

"I'm sorry…" she mumbled. Voldemort was unsure what she was apologizing for. He only shrugged awkwardly—it seemed like an appropriate response. He remembered that nobody had quite known how to deal with Walburga Black's tearful temper tantrums back in the day. This was probably something similar, though he was sure it involved different motivations.

"Er, it's okay." he muttered as she dabbed her eyes and then blew her nose wetly.

"I'm sorry, we just met, this—this… no, I've got it. I'm okay. I'm okay." she said, breathing harshly. She drew a wand from her pocket, and Voldemort tracked it, feeling somewhat alarmed, even as she only used it to cast a few cleaning charms. Who knew what sorts of horrible results could ensue from casting under emotional duress?

In the end, Lord Voldemort did not manage to say anything. At least Dumbledore had already gone away to leave them in peace, and had had the decency to move them out of his office, which was full of spying portraits. He had no idea where he was now, since he had been side-along apparated onto an unknown street, and now they were standing about in an unknown house. He supposed it belonged to Lily; it was overwhelmingly muggle, to the point where there was no way he could tell that a witch might live inside—there wasn't even a fireplace. He found it somewhat unnerving.

Lily seemed to have calmed down, but Voldemort was hesitant to make conversation, uncertain as he was of his rusty acting ability. He had met Hermione Granger already, but the single example of what an eleven-year-old ought to be like was hardly enough, and he had the idea that Hermione was rather odd for a girl her age. Once he spent a day or two at Hogwarts, Voldemort was confident that he would slip back into the role of the accommodating student with ease, but for now, it had been sixty years since he had had to bow to anybody's wishes, and the change was difficult to accustom himself to. He was afraid he had already acted too passively several times. Wouldn't a real child have got angry at being ignored and having his identity rewritten without his permission?

Finally, Lord Voldemort settled on a good question to ask. "So… what's going on? Nobody will explain anything." He added a dash of desperation to his last few words, and frowned deeply.

"What do you know?" Lily asked. Lord Voldemort thought about it, because he really had no idea. He cursed himself for not having earlier devised some kind of mnemonic for separating his real knowledge from that which his persona was supposed to possess. Occlumency was only useful if one anticipated the need to organize one's thoughts.

He supposed that he was acting the part of an idiot schoolboy. So he said, "I don't know. Nothing? I only just learned that I was a wizard." He said this quickly, but decided that the words still sounded stiff. He needed to practice more, and quickly.

Lily did not seem to notice anything amiss, however. "Oh… I don't know where to start." she mumbled.

Lord Voldemort refrained from saying something sarcastic, though he wasn't sure why he bothered. Lily lapsed into silence for a few moments before she finally began.

"Well, I suppose…" She sniffed once, and then picked up her wand again, glancing around almost in paranoia. Then she twirled her wand expertly in very recognizable motions—a muffling spell, an alarm, and a distraction charm, all components of what was colloquially known as a privacy bubble. Lord Voldemort watched her face in anticipation, waiting.

"It all starts with a prophecy." she said, frowning.

"A prophecy?" Voldemort interrupted sceptically. He was curious to know if she had learned the wording sometime in the past decade, but it wasn't important. He needed to act the part of an apparent muggle-born. Lily smiled slightly, which he supposed meant that he had done something correctly.

"I didn't believe it at first, either." she replied. Then she glanced around again, as if distrustful of the integrity of her privacy bubble. "Listen, you shouldn't tell anybody I told you. Especially not Albus. He says you're too young, but I think you have a right to know."

The hoarseness of her voice made her message sound all the graver. Lord Voldemort thought furiously, even as he said only, "Er, thank you. I won't tell anyone." aloud. Albus Dumbledore did not want Harry Potter to know of the prophecy surrounding his life. Why was Harry too young? Was it because Harry knew little of magic, and could wish to disregard the prophecy, causing havoc? But that could easily be remedied by Dumbledore if he simply emphasized the prophecy's importance. Perhaps that was the problem; he knew nothing about Harry, and so did not know if he had the necessary influence to change Harry's mind.

He glanced back up to Lily. She was blatantly disregarding Dumbledore's wishes. Perhaps she wanted to gain Harry's trust, but it seemed to be an odd way of going about it. Harry Potter was an eleven-year-old child. The first things he could think of that would gain Harry's trust were giving him his favourite food and playing childish games with him. Such a simple matter certainly did not involve disclosure of the prophecy.

"The prophecy says that you have the power to defeat the Dark Lord." Lily said. Voldemort frowned.

"Who is he? Why does he need to be defeated?" he asked. "How come nobody else has this power? I'm just a boy." he added. That question had been bothering him for awhile now. Harry Potter was not particularly special. He was boy who had a good grasp on using imagination in magic and who had had more opportunity to practice magic than his peers, but a normal boy nonetheless. Perhaps, by not entirely abiding by the prophecy, Voldemort had stopped him from developing his special power, but the question still stood.

How could a random boy have a power that no existing, perfectly competent adult already possessed? Why would Lord Voldemort's actions—to mark somebody as an equal—have any impact on whether that person acquired a "power he knew not?" It still made absolutely no sense, and he was afraid he wouldn't see it until it was too late, if it ever came to that.

Lily looked somewhat astonished. "I… I don't know. I don't actually know the exact content of the prophecy." she admitted. Lord Voldemort was surprised that Dumbledore still had not informed her, and that she had not somehow extracted the information from him. "The Dark Lord is named Voldemort, and he's the one who killed James. Your father."

"Oh." Voldemort said, doing his best to look rather astounded. "My father was murdered?" Lily nodded slowly, and Voldemort thought she might burst into tears again. But she didn't. She only closed her eyes and leaned back and waited.

Suddenly, something occurred to Voldemort that he had stupidly never noticed before.

Why did Lord Voldemort's influence on Harry matter? Because the prophecy had urged Voldemort to attack Harry Potter and his family. If Harry Potter remained alive afterwards, then he would have a perfect motive to "vanquish the Dark Lord": revenge.

Lord Voldemort had prevented Harry from harbouring hatred towards him, perhaps with this idea in mind, but he had never gone a step further in understanding why Harry might become his enemy. It was still plainly true that he had killed Harry Potter's father, and though he had twisted the truth for Harry's benefit, there might come a day when the boy realized that all was not as black and white as it had been painted. The prophecy remained forever a danger, and fighting it was like holding closed bursting floodgates with his bare hands. Leakage was inevitable.

Noting that Lily had yet to say anything further, he cast about for something else to ask.

"Why was I in foster care, then?" he tried. It was unbelievable that he had forgotten to ask that even earlier. If, in his childhood, he had been pulled from the orphanage to see his up to the point nonexistent mother—well, he supposed he had already gone through that with his father, and there hadn't really been any questions asked. He had instead cast three killing curses and made his first horcrux. Of course Lily Potter wasn't really his mother and he knew that she had not abandoned her son. And Harry Potter was nothing like Tom Riddle.

Lily looked pained for a moment.

"We lost you." she said. "I don't know how, but you disappeared. At first, Dumbledore thought Voldemort took you, but obviously—obviously that's not true."

Lord Voldemort did not let it disturb his outward composure, but his heart nearly skipped a beat. Of course he should have expected that Dumbledore would not have publicised his outlandish hypothesis about the defeat of Lord Voldemort without first having entertained more likely scenarios. In fact, Voldemort still had no idea whether Dumbledore really believed that he had been "vanquished" by Harry Potter, or had merely announced his verdict as misdirection.

"So nobody knows what happened?" he asked again in confirmation. Lily shook her head.

"So… how did Professor Dumbledore's machine know who I was? I had to be touching it, right?" Voldemort asked, changing the subject slightly. It seemed like a valid concern. Lily smiled slightly.

"That's right. It knows your name because your name is a magical part of you that can't be changed. You ask a lot of questions, don't you? You could be a Ravenclaw." she said. Voldemort noted that she had hesitated over her explanation of names. Filing away the thought for later, he obligingly replied.

"Ravenclaw? That's a Hogwarts house, right? Professor McGonagall was talking about them."

Lily must have found Hogwarts a nice and safe topic, because she suddenly burst into much more active speech and even managed to knock over a vase on a side table with her gesturing, a far cry from her previous tense stillness. The privacy bubble decayed into formlessness and eventually they migrated to the kitchen, where Lily made them lemonade with too much sugar.

Nursing his overly sweet drink and hiding a grimace, Lord Voldemort nodded along to Lily's explanation of Quidditch. She was, unsurprisingly, a Holyhead Harpies fan. Voldemort had never held much interest for the sport, but he knew enough to be bored by her enthusiastic description; he was surprised when she noticed and reassured him that not everybody liked Quidditch.

A movement under the kitchen table distracted Voldemort, and he glanced down, only to meet a pair of bulbous yellow eyes.

"A cat?" he exclaimed, startled that he had not noticed its entrance. It inspected him disdainfully before winding around the chair leg, keeping its sleek grey body out of his reach.

"Oh, yes, we have a few cats and kneazle mixes. Er, a kneazle is a sort of magical cat. That one's Mr. Tibbles. I think he's ordinary."

"Mr. Tibbles?" Voldemort repeated sceptically. Lily shrugged.

"They all really belong to Arabella. She's, er, a friend. This is her house, too." she explained.

"Where is she?" Voldemort asked, curious to meet another witch who was presumably an acquaintance of Dumbledore's, if she was keeping Lily hidden.

"Out shopping, I think." Lily replied.

Voldemort opened his mouth and then closed it furiously. He had almost begun to ask whether they had a house elf, because the kitchen had seemed quite clean. He really needed to properly figure out what he was supposed to know.

"Oh. Is there a bathroom?" he asked instead. Lily directed him down the hall and to the right, where there was a small alcove with a narrow sink and a toilet. He shut the door and sat down on top of the closed seat. Staring at a bit of wall to focus himself, he began to occlude actively, feeling a numbing haze come over his conscious thoughts that grew from ordinary listlessness into a seeping, magical force.

Sufficiently distanced from reality, he exerted some careful, conscious effort and found himself suddenly more aware of his stream of thoughts. What he needed to do was separate what he was supposed to know as Eric Jones from everything else.

His name was actually Harry Potter, he had just discovered that, and was that not extremely odd? It was more than odd; it was an astonishing revelation. His mother was alive, and he had met and spoken to her. That was what he had always wanted. Did that mean he wouldn't see Mrs. Watkins again? It didn't matter because he had learned that he was a wizard, that he was going to Hogwarts, that there were four houses at Hogwarts and each of them had a Quidditch team and each team had seven players, and they were—but he shouldn't remember what they were called anymore, it was complicated after all, but anyway the game was played on brooms, which was only one of the many fascinating magical things that were in fairy tales but had turned out to be real; actually it was very strange that so many fairy tales seemed to depict things accurately… hmm… he ought to read his history book…

Patiently, quite removed from his surroundings, Voldemort let his thoughts guide themselves, gently curtailing any attempts they made to veer into more profound topics. By the end of the exercise, about two minutes had passed, and, having reviewed the proper subset of his knowledge with the aid of magic, he could bring it more easily to the forefront of his mind without having to think so furiously. Pleased with himself, he stood up, remembered to flush the toilet and wash his hands to keep up pretences, and returned to the kitchen.

Two more cats had entered the room, and a long-haired white thing with a sharp face and bulky shoulders had stolen his seat. The obvious kneazle mix eyed him warily, and when he came near snapped its head forward, sharp teeth missing his fingers by a hair's breadth.

He cried out in some surprise as Lily reprimanded the cat, "Snowy! No biting."

Voldemort realized that the part-kneazles could sense his less-than-honest intentions. Biting his lip and thinking furiously, he reached forward again with his hand and allowed Snowy to lean closer to inspect it with a sniff.

"It's okay." he said. "I don't mean any harm."

It was true, for now, and the cat seemed satisfied with his promise. Snowy ducked under his hand and vacated the seat, bounding off out the door to the living room, where he disappeared from sight.

"Sorry about that. She didn't get you, did she?" Lily asked. Voldemort shook his head.

"No, it's fine." he replied, adding, "I like cats."

It wasn't true or false, for Voldemort had never been interested in having a pet or even a magical familiar, but it seemed to make Lily happy. "Really? Me too. Aren't they cute? We have four; that one over there is Tufty," she pointed to a long black cat with a bushy tail and shrewd yellow eyes, "and Mr. Paws is probably out exploring again."

Unimpressed with the names, Voldemort could only say, "Ah."

"They shed everywhere, though." Lily murmured somewhat ruefully, "But they're very clever. Snowy and Mr. Paws are trained as watch-kneazles. Sort of like watchdogs, but subtler."

"Really?" he asked with a thoughtful air, "How does that work? You can't really hear a cat's meow from far away." He allowed himself to adopt a more intellectual angle on the conversation. Let Lily think him a future Ravenclaw; he had no idea about watch-kneazles, anyway, and the right way to hold an ingratiating conversation with someone was to express interest in most of what was said. He remembered that much from his school days, at least.

"Well, kneazles can fit through even smaller spaces than cats. I think they can actually magically compress their skulls. They're also very fast, and can deliver messages or alerts." Lily explained.

Voldemort hummed. "Wouldn't a dog's bark still be a faster alarm?"

Lily shrugged. "A barking dog will alert an intruder as well, however, and it's better to have the element of surprise."

"I s—guess I can't argue with that." Voldemort replied, reminding himself to use more colloquial, juvenile language. He was hardly in the middle of a formal pureblood gathering at the moment.

His head turned toward the sudden, thick sound of the front door opening and the rustling of paper bags.

"Why thank you, Mr. Paws!" said a creaky female voice, presumably that of the as of yet unknown "Arabella."

"Arabella's home." Lily confirmed. "I'll introduce you."

Arabella was an old woman with greying hair and a matronly smile. She set down her bags, which clinked loudly against the floor and quickly attracted all four cats, to give Voldemort a firm handshake.

"Nice to meet you." he said to her, "Are you a witch too?"

Suddenly, discomfort flashed across both women's faces for a moment. Voldemort's interest was piqued. He frowned slightly and asked, "Did I say something bad?"

"No, no." Lily reassured him.

Arabella shook her head, surprising Voldemort. "No, I'm a squib. It means my parents were magical but I'm not."

"Oh." Voldemort replied. He smiled gently to express that he liked her anyway, as any muggle-born (and Harry Potter) would be expected to. In one respect, she was incorrect anyway, in that even squibs were magical. They emitted magic like any witch or wizard, which meant that they could interact with magic, unlike true muggles. They were, however, incapable of actually using their own magic.

"So what would you like for dinner?" asked Lily. Voldemort looked up, glancing out the window to see that it was still quite bright outside, before diverting his gaze to the clock, which said that it was six in the evening. He was surprised at how late it was.

"Anything." he replied. "Do you need help?" he offered politely. Lily turned to Arabella.

"Ask her. I'm a terrible cook, so I'm not even allowed." she said.

"Oh no, I'll be just fine." Arabella said, bustling about the cabinets as she stocked them with tins of cat food. "Mr. Tibbles! That's not for you." she reprimanded, taking a swipe at the grey cat that had been sniffing curiously at a packaged fish.

"Oh!" Lily exclaimed, "I should show you your room?"

"My room?" Voldemort asked. "I'm staying here, then?"

"Of course." Lily said. Voldemort wondered whether he ought to ask about Eric Jones's foster parents, but decided against it.

"Okay." he replied instead, following Lily out of the kitchen and up the stairs. He could see that the house had four bedrooms on the second floor, with a bathroom set into the corner of the hall. Lily led him to the last bedroom on the right.

"Here. Sorry about the dust. This used to be the guest bedroom, but I don't think we've ever had any guests." she said. "We'll get you a desk later. If you need anything else, just ask."

"It's fine." Voldemort replied. He entered the room, surveying the furnishings. A rather large mattress was pushed up against the wall in the corner on top of a low wooden frame, with sheets and bedspread folded neatly atop it, and in the opposite corner stood a white chest of drawers with a wooden figurine of a cat on top. Besides these articles the room was bare, and, as Lily had apologized for, coated in a thin layer of dust. Biting back a sneeze, Voldemort rubbed his nose and moved to sit on the bed.

"Are you fine here while I do some work?" Lily asked. Voldemort looked up and nodded.

"Yes." Something occurred to him then. "What about my other things? They're still with my foster parents." Eric Jones did not own much, and certainly nothing Lord Voldemort would need, especially considering he was still wearing transfigured clothing. Still, it would be suspicious not to care.

Lily looked surprised, which he supposed meant that she had not thought about it. "I'll see if I can get your things brought over." she said.

"All right." Voldemort agreed. "I think I'm going to get a head start on my school books." he told her. Lily nodded and agreed that it was a good idea, before she turned and continued down the hallway. Voldemort stepped downstairs and retrieved the fruits of his shopping trip, returning to the bed with the textbook for Potions opened to a random page. He had no intention of actually reviewing first-year material; he needed to deal with business, including the alarming reports Lucius had been sending about Dumbledore's newest efforts to promote legislation subsidizing the cost of muggle-borns attending Hogwarts. The issue was made more stressful by the fact that Voldemort was not entirely certain what stance he should even take toward the idea, though he had already sent his response to Lucius several days ago, urging him to derail the motion. Judging from the content of this morning's report, Lucius was not having much luck.

Currently, the problem with laws regarding muggle-borns was that firstly, there was no subsidization at all for their magical education, which meant that many muggle-borns declined going to Hogwarts or a magical trade school for financial reasons. Since magical education was not compulsory, they were simply left alone for the rest of their lives, while still being subject to the Ministry and allowed access to magical locations and travel, just like squibs.

This policy, in Lord Voldemort's opinion, left the magical world ridiculously insecure. Because muggles were not under the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Magic except in cases involving exposure to magic, and the families of muggle-borns were allowed to have knowledge of the magical world, it would be easy enough for one of these muggle family members to spread information around. If nobody raised a ruckus, it would be impossible for the Ministry to know that any security breach had occurred, since no magic would have been performed. Though the Ministry ran the same risk regarding school-attending muggle-borns, these children would theoretically be more integrated into the magical world and be more interested in upholding the Statute of Secrecy.

The main problem at the moment, of course, was that uneducated muggle-borns and their families were allowed to keep their knowledge. Obliviation of any magical being was illegal, no matter what, which meant that obliviating the muggle-born in question was not allowed. Some of Voldemort's agents had been working to change this restriction, but opponents of obliviation had so far succeeded in arguing that it would be a moral slippery slope—if an exception was made in one case, what was to say more exceptions would not be made later?

Therefore, if the new legislation regarding subsidizing muggle-born education passed, there would be a decrease in the number of muggle-borns refusing a magical education, thereby ameliorating the problem somewhat. Of course, Lord Voldemort knew that it would be step back from a more permanent solution. He also doubted that educated muggle-borns ran much less risk of exposing the magical world.

What the magical world really needed to do was cut itself off completely from the muggle world. Currently, so many institutions were shared that it would be impossible, but in the span of half a century Lord Voldemort believed that it could be achieved. Furthermore, several generations after such a separation, muggle-borns would virtually cease to exist, if Voldemort's theory that all muggle-borns actually had magical ancestors was correct, and he strongly suspected that it was, though he had no solid evidence.

Previously, Voldemort had considered ridding the world of muggle-borns by killing them or forcing them to leave the magical world, but that sort of plan was flawed in several ways, as it did not reach the root of the problem. Muggle-borns would still exist and would have to be continuously dealt with, which would require more resources than was ideal. Therefore, integration was preferable to outright annihilation.

For now, the subsidization of muggle-born education seemed pointless or even detrimental to his cause, but might be politically beneficial, since all operations would be given the veneer of benevolence. The main problem with even considering supporting such an idea would be Lucius Malfoy himself, to whom the resolution of the issue was plain. Lord Voldemort's other followers, traditionalists as they were, would expect nothing less than outright rejection of the motion. Voldemort had drawn many of his most useful followers in through rhetoric against muggles and muggle-borns, claiming that he would cleanse the world of their presence and restore the old order of magic practice without explicating his planned methods. He knew that they had assumed, given the initial viciousness of his terror campaign, that his goal was to wipe out muggle-borns by killing them outright. He had not bothered to correct this misunderstanding.

In light of the recent proposals that Dumbledore had been supporting, however, Lord Voldemort wondered whether it would be prudent to explicate a change in his stance before he lost too much ground. He could not deny that Dumbledore was the one who was politically correct and gaining at the moment. Lord Voldemort acknowledged and accepted that he was a dark lord, the leader of a planned revolution against the present regime, but even a dark lord needed the support of real people, and preferably a majority of people, to survive politically.

Lord Voldemort cursed the precariousness of any hypothetical change in course. His long term aims were just the same and he imagined they always would be, but his short term goals were being thrown by every new move Dumbledore made, perhaps even without the man's own intention or notice. Voldemort knew that his organization and his cause were not necessarily what concerned Dumbledore. In fact, he imagined that he shared Dumbledore's end goals in regard to the magical world. Lord Voldemort emphasized separation, and Albus Dumbledore integration, but the two ideas worked toward the same result.

The reason he and Albus Dumbledore were enemies was clear-cut. Dumbledore could not tolerate Voldemort's means, and Voldemort put no stock in Dumbledore's. Violence, Dumbledore had always emphasized, even since his days as a mere professor of transfiguration, was never the answer. And violence, Lord Voldemort knew well, paved the path of change; destruction of the old order paved the way for the new, and no revolution could keep its hold without first eradicating all proponents of the regime it had deposed.

So it was clear: Albus Dumbledore did not necessarily oppose all of Lord Voldemort's goals; Albus Dumbledore opposed Lord Voldemort. And therein lay the problem. Forever cognizant of the prophecy's threat lingering over his head, Voldemort knew that he, as an individual, would have to continue treading carefully, even while Lucius and his friends took steps to push the Ministry into submission, even while his followers remained in the midst of ordinary society, unrecognized and unremarked, ready to strike at a moment's notice.

The majority of them believed him dead or at least temporarily unavailable, but he did not worry. If anything, Lord Voldemort's ability to lead was swift and effective, and it would be easy to reassemble the Death Eaters who had fought for his terror campaign.

All Death Eaters had sworn a threefold oath to him to treat his enemies as enemies and his friends as friends, to obey his commands, and to never betray him as long as he kept his side of the covenant. As this oath was a traditional one of fealty, it was not remotely as severe as, say, an Unbreakable Vow, but did hold consequences for those who dared break it. For one, any perceived violation of the terms gave Lord Voldemort a right to break his Lord's Promise to always protect a given Death Eater's family and property and to provide any kind of relief in times of need; every Death Eater knew that the punishment for minor offenses was a bout of cruciatus and for betrayal, torture and death. Additionally, a Death Eater who believed, even subconsciously, that he had violated a part of the oath would find the magic he had put into the oath turning against him, making it difficult for him to cast spells and otherwise inconveniencing his life, especially since the oath was tied into the Dark Mark, which was branded onto every Death Eater's skin and so was rather difficult to escape from.

Thus, the greatest threat to the movement at this very moment was the possibility that its leader might die. It did not matter that he appeared to be dead; key players continued to work toward his goals. The moment Lord Voldemort was truly gone, everything they had worked for would descend into chaos. Either they would be ideologically overpowered, or pureblood family politics, kept at bay by a common lord, would cause the unified front to devolve into a multitude of ultimately powerless factions. Some of this division was already well under way, but Lord Voldemort was not concerned because when the time came, he would be able to bring all of his vassals back together under their oath.

More important than his goals and ideology was, of course, his own life. Lord Voldemort was not abashed to admit that he feared death—it was his only fear. All sane people feared death. He had heard Albus Dumbledore's declaration that death was only "the next great adventure," and he dismissed it for what it was: weakness. Dumbledore had not overcome his natural fear of death; instead, he had managed to accept it as an inevitability and put his fears aside, too weak to turn and combat its approach. Lord Voldemort had vowed to himself that he would flee from death's grasp. Inevitable meant merely that death would come some day in the future. And if Voldemort had anything to say about it, that day would remain solidly "in the future," forever.

The prophecy was meant to tell the future as well. Nothing Voldemort had read could explain exactly how prophecies worked, except that the recipient of a prophecy played a part in determining its meaning. How large a part, exactly, was apparently up for debate. Some texts declared that the recipient's interpretation was the sole correct one, while others argued that the subjects of the prophecy were also, or more, important. Everybody seemed to agree, however, that the subjects of the prophecy were decided by the recipient, and no one else.

Whether it was possible to completely get rid of a prophecy's influence was also a point of intense contention, both magical and philosophical. There were currently two popular theories. The first was that a prophecy's outcome, however it was determined, was completely inevitable unless everybody involved died prematurely. That theory irked Lord Voldemort to no end, and so he chose to believe the second proposal, that all players could choose to either support or attempt to thwart the outcome, with the prophecy itself acting as an extra player that would always work toward the outcome. How exactly the last was possible was also a mystery, but one whose solution Lord Voldemort did not particularly care about.

Voldemort sat up straight and focused on the textbook in his lap as he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. A moment later, Lily was at the doorway, her long orange hair now swept out of her face in a ponytail.

"Dinner's ready." she said. Voldemort nodded and closed the book, setting it on the pillow beside him as he stood up.

"What were you reading?" Lily asked him as she accompanied him down the stairs.

"Potions." he replied.

"Oh. Do you like it?" Lily seemed enthused at the mention of potions, and Voldemort gathered that she must have some expertise in the field. He himself was able to brew anything out of a recipe, and was knowledgeable enough to improve on certain formulas, but lacked the experimenter's touch required to invent entirely new potions. He left that to Severus, who had not only passion but also an excellent laboratory with any conceivable potion ingredient in easy reach, given his status as a first-rank member of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers (MESP). The man had made quite the name and fortune for himself as a researcher of medicinal potions and certified brewer of Class A restricted potions for the Ministry, in particular veritaserum.

"I think it's interesting," Voldemort told Lily, "but I wouldn't know until I try it out for myself."

Lily nodded. "Well, of course. Would you like to? Try it out, I mean."

Voldemort was surprised at the offer. He would be chary of teaching an eleven-year-old to mix volatile and often poisonous ingredients together on the kitchen stove, unless there was a laboratory hidden away somewhere in the muggle house.

But he said, "I'd love to." He felt more relaxed now while speaking. His earlier occlumency reinforcement had probably helped. Being able to think of himself as an innocent, inquisitive boy made it much easier to formulate appropriate responses. "But I thought the ingredients I bought were for school."

Lily waved a hand dismissively as they entered the kitchen and were greeted by the pleasant smell of fresh pasta and the sight of Arabella in a luridly pink, cat-patterned apron with gigantic, bright green oven mitts encasing both hands, clutching a large ceramic dish. The table was already laden with bread, cheese, and salad.

"You won't have to worry about the ingredients. I have a friend who's a potions master, and he'll provide us with everything we need." Lily told him. Voldemort wanted to know who this friend was, but knew that it would be strange to ask, considering he wasn't supposed to know any wizards anyway, so he only gave a nod.

"I hope you like spaghetti." said Arabella as she set down the dish and divested her hands of the mitts, which she set on the side of the table.

Voldemort nodded. "I like all kinds of food." he said. It was true; he was hardly a picky eater. Lord Voldemort was more concerned about having something to eat than what that something was, perhaps a product of his years living in a muggle orphanage during wartime. With an understanding that a full stomach and a relatively healthy lifestyle freed his magic for conscious use, he was content to eat anything that would give him the proper nourishment.

Taking a forkful of pasta, he chewed carefully and glanced at Arabella through shuttered eyelids. The food certainly passed his standards of acceptability. "This is really good." he said quietly, after he had swallowed. Years of ingratiating himself with authority figures had taught him how to improve others' opinions of him, and his skills, though rusty from disuse, were finally coming back to him as he slipped into his role. People thrived on small but seemingly heartfelt praise, especially regarding their achievements. On the other hand, compliments that came out of nowhere or that seemed superficial might be regarded with suspicion, so it was important to regulate what one said to give an impression of sincerity.

Arabella seemed to light up at his comment, and Voldemort filed it away as a good sign.

"So have you looked at your other books yet?" Lily asked him. Voldemort was about to shake his head when he decided that he might be better-served otherwise.

"A bit." he said. "I looked ahead at some spells." It was what he had done originally, when he had really been a first year. He had been all-too-eager to begin using his wand.

"You didn't try any of them, did you?" Lily inquired hurriedly. This time, Voldemort shook his head.

"Of course not." he said firmly. Lily nodded.

"Good. Underage magic is illegal without supervision." she informed him.

"I'll keep that in mind." he replied, though he doubted he would have to worry about anything like that. Underage magic was tracked through an enchantment, the Trace, placed on all student wands, usually by the wand maker. Used outside of a Ministry context, a monitoring spell like the Trace would be more practical if applied to the subjects themselves, but as it was impossible to enchant a human being for more than several weeks, let alone seven years, the wand was the next most practical target for the Ministry. As an added precaution, students living near muggles often had the Trace cast on their persons at the end of every school year, and though the spell would not last for the entirety of the holidays, it usually served its purpose curtailing the use of magic.

The most major flaw in the system, of course, was the way the spell feedback had been configured. The wand enchantment only alerted the Ministry if a listed spell was used within its radius, and no adult's wand was nearby at the time. It was a very inaccurate enforcement measure, but there was little other way to manage it automatically and efficiently.

At any rate, the fact that he had his original yew wand on him at all times meant that the Trace would not affect him at all. He would need to be careful, however, to keep his wand properly concealed while still accessible. Without a good wand, it would take more focus to cast spells, and some spells would be unable to manifest at full strength.

"If you're really interested, I'll take you to see Severus tomorrow." Lily said, interrupting his train of thought.

"Severus?" he repeated, privately astounded. Severus was not a particularly common name, even among wizards, and if she was referring to her potions master friend, Lord Voldemort was almost certain that it had to be Severus Snape.

"My friend who can show you some potions." Lily explained. "He has a huge lab and everything."

"Seems rather brilliant." Voldemort replied honestly. The MESP really was a marvel for dedicated researchers. Instead of working independently, all affiliated potioneers funnelled whatever funding they could get their hands on into the Society, and in return everyone was able to utilize top-notch equipment and ingredients, while also benefitting from intellectual discussions with peers. The membership oath also conveniently prevented most forms of academic dishonesty and limited destructive competition, and the MESP had churned out more successful new potions and potion theories in the past century than independent researchers had in the previous ten combined. Hector Dagworth-Granger was rightly regarded as a genius and a saint for the Society's founding.

Indeed, the next day, as they took the floo into the lobby of the main laboratory building and Voldemort made a show of falling on his face after hurtling out of the fireplace, he was able to see first-hand what the conditions were like for the Society's members. Non-members were not allowed inside unless they swore a non-disclosure oath and were invited by a member, and Lord Voldemort had never before bothered to do so.

Meeting Severus Snape was a bit of a shock, despite all of his expectations.

"So this is the brat?" was the first thing Severus said to Lily as he gave Voldemort a glance up and down and seemed to find him lacking. "He looks just like James." There was a strange, unreadable glint of emotion that flickered in his black eyes at this pronouncement.

"Nonsense." Lily said resolutely. Voldemort was pleased to finally hear that somebody agreed with him; black hair and a pointed nose did mean that Harry Potter looked exactly like James Potter. On the other hand, he was annoyed to find that Severus, as a close friend of Lily's, must have known that she had kept her mental faculties perfectly after the attack and had not seen fit to inform him of it. Then he quashed his irritation, as he could easily see the reason—Severus had either thought it trivial, or had assumed that Voldemort had already known.

"Well. Severus Snape." said Severus, holding out a hand. Voldemort took it and shook it firmly.

"Eric—" he made a show of forgetting his name, "er, I mean, Harry Potter, sir. I'm really glad to meet you."

"Eric?" Severus turned dubiously to Lily, who flushed slightly.

"You know how we found him living with muggles in foster care?" She continued as Severus nodded, "He didn't know his name was Harry Potter."

"I see." Severus said, peering at him again, as if in a new light. Then he nodded. "Well, Lily told me you were interested in potions. I am uncertain what exactly I'm meant to do for you," he began with his usual blunt honesty, "but if you would like, you may watch me work."

Lily looked somewhat embarrassed for her friend, but Voldemort, used to Severus's manner, only gave him a smile and a nod. "That would be great, sir."

"Good." Severus motioned for him to follow as he tugged open the wooden door and stepped through into the potions lab.

Half of the lab was bathed in bright light from overhead lighting enchantments in the form of floating orbs, while the other half of the lab was almost completely dark, with only dim blue rings set into the wall to provide enough illumination to navigate by.

Though he had a good idea as to why this setup was the case, he asked anyway. "Why is that half so dark?"

Severus answered the question thoroughly: "Some ingredients are adversely affected by certain types of light. For example, the aconitum leaf used in potions changes its magical properties depending on the amount of light it is exposed to for about an hour before use, while its chemical makeup remains the same, which is advantageous because one can then separately determine the magical and physical interactions to ensure that the potion is safe to ingest."

"I see." Voldemort said. He was genuinely curious, having never gone particularly deeply into the theory of potions, as he had been more concerned with the practice. "But if some of the ingredients are poisonous, how can you stop the potion from being a poison?" He knew that magic was somehow involved, but he did not know exactly how, as he had never needed to know.

"For most potions, as they are intended for consumption by wizards, the toxicity of the ingredients is not extraordinarily important, as a wizard's magic will neutralize physical poisons. For example—let's use aconitum again—if I forced a 50 mL tincture of aconitum down your throat, I doubt you would even begin to feel the symptoms, whereas a muggle would be dead within the hour. If there's a reason to suspect that the recipient's magic will be unable to combat the toxicity, then there are several magical methods of rendering potions and ingredients safe. There are exceptions, of course, but that is what research is for." Severus explained. Voldemort nodded.

"That makes sense." he said. "Thank you for explaining." He had actually never realized that wizards were resistant to poisons, though it made some sense, considering the fact that magical poisons was an entire subfield of potions. Magical poisons would hardly be necessary if ordinary substances could be used. Then again, if one was not in need of subtlety, even wizards and witches were susceptible to ridiculous doses. His successful murder of Hepzibah Smith with common rat poison proved that, though he supposed that the fact that she was a useless, weak excuse of a witch had probably helped.

Severus turned his head to gaze at him for several moments before he nodded in return. "It was no trouble." he said. "It's good to see children who appreciate the art. Now, since you're here, I might as well treat you like an apprentice for the day."

Voldemort bit back a sigh at that declaration. He would likely be fetching ingredients and cleaning cauldrons for the rest of the day; alas, he could not reveal to Severus that he was hardly the child he appeared to be.

When Lily came to retrieve him in the afternoon, Voldemort's arms were rather sore from lifting cauldrons, and he had learned several titbits of potions theory he had not previously known, including the mechanics behind Ministry-grade veritaserum. Severus was a good teacher—at least, for adults. Voldemort imagined that if he had really been eleven-year-old Harry Potter, he would have been completely in over his head and bewildered by the fast-paced explanations.

"How was your day?" Lily asked him. Voldemort gave her a tired smile.

"It was fine." he said. "Mr. Snape is really good at potions."

"He is, isn't he? He's one of the foremost experts in Britain." Lily informed him.

"Really? Wow. I feel really lucky to have worked with him today, then." Voldemort said. He knew that many students would kill for such an opportunity, as Severus Snape was extremely picky about apprentices, and had only ever taken on two. Voldemort supposed that being the son of Severus's friend had some perks. It was a pity he wasn't actually a child interested in becoming a potions master. He was more interested in strengthening his cause, thwarting the prophecy, and eventually getting rid of Dumbledore, and that meant preparing and preparing ever more.

The month between his arrival at Lily and Arabella's home and his departure for Hogwarts passed in the blink of an eye. Lord Voldemort had successfully made Arabella his friend, and Lily loved him, whether it was something about him or merely the idea of him as her son, and goodbyes bordered on tearful as they stood before the merry, scarlet steam engine that was the Hogwarts Express. Arabella had tried to make him take Snowy along, but Voldemort had managed to convince her otherwise. The last thing he wanted was a pet to be responsible for. Voldemort had slicked Harry's untameable hair down somewhat with Sleakeazys Hair Potion and had already donned his school robes in place, while Lily and Arabella remained in muggle attire and were taking turns giving him hugs.

Lord Voldemort had, at first, been taken aback by their open show of emotion, but had quickly got used to the action. After he spotted Narcissa Malfoy clutching her son Draco so tightly to her chest that his white face had turned bright pink, he decided that it must be a convention of the new generation.

Having an hour until the train's departure, Voldemort found himself an empty compartment near the front of the train and settled down.

Five minutes later, he realized that he was bored. It was a novel feeling, as he had always had concerns to occupy his mind before. But at the moment, everything had already progressed as much as it could, and he only needed to wait.

Lucius had been steadily losing ground in the Wizengamot on the issue of muggle-born integration, while he had nonetheless been able to pad enough pockets to increase the stringency of the Statute of Secrecy and up funding for the Obliviators. An agent in the Department of International Magical Cooperation had been put under the imperius curse right under Bartemius Crouch's nose. Augustus Rookwood had recently got himself promoted to the assistant head of the Department of Mysteries. As far as Lord Voldemort was concerned, there was little else to worry about in the Ministry.

The prophecy, too, he could do nothing about until he reached the school in six hours time. The train had not yet left the station, and other than Draco Malfoy and Vincent Crabbe, both sons of his supporters, he had not seen any other young students on the platform, so socialising did not appear to be an option as of yet.

Reaching into the pocket of his robes, which for the first time in awhile were real robes, not transfigured, he pulled out a slip of parchment, which he unfolded. The crease lines disappeared. He tapped it with his holly wand. No text appeared on it, which meant that he had not received any reports.

Tapping the parchment again, he extracted a self-inking quill from the front compartment of his trunk and began writing.

"I have boarded the Hogwarts Express."

The words glistened and then sank into the page, as if they'd never been. Raising his quill to write another sentence, he was surprised when the parchment grew warm in his hand and ink blossomed across the page.

"That's nice?" it said. Belatedly, Lord Voldemort realized that the parchment was still linked to Harry's own piece, as he had never cancelled the spell. "Do you need something" Harry's messy handwriting appeared again. A moment later, a swift, "my Lord?" was also appended. Voldemort snorted.

"How are your lessons?" he penned. He did not actually care much, but he hoped Harry would appreciate some concern. It might improve their relationship, which was still a rather odd one.

"Fine." Harry wrote back. "I'm in divination right now" there was a smudge of ink, "a load of rubbish but I have an E in the class."

Talk of divination with Harry reminded Lord Voldemort of the prophecy and then of Lily. He hesitated for a moment before he wrote.

"Harry. I found out that your mother is fine."

"?" was the articulate response.

"She is perfectly sane and lives in a muggle area, but everybody still believes she is a long-term resident of St. Mungo's. I do not know why." Voldemort wrote, even as Harry's scrawl interrupted him halfway through his sentence with, "Why?"

"Oh." Harry added quickly.

There was no response for several more minutes, and just as Lord Voldemort was growing annoyed again, more words appeared on the page.

"Sorry, teacher came."

"You had better get back to your lesson then." Voldemort replied, effectively ending the conversation. Hopefully, Harry had understood that Lily's situation remained a mystery to Voldemort as well, and would consider him an ally in solving the question.

A loud whistle shrieked, and then the train began to move, startling him. At that moment, a knock sounded on the compartment door, and he looked up, folding the parchment and slipping it back into his pocket. The door slid open and revealed a boy with dark brown hair and freckles peering in cautiously. His tie was black, indicating that he was an unsorted first-year.

"Er, can I sit here?" asked the boy. "The other compartments are full of older years."

"Certainly." Voldemort replied equitably. The boy entered and took a seat across from him.

"I'm Michael Corner." He held out his hand. Voldemort took it and gave it a shake.

"Harry Potter." he replied. He could tell that Corner seemed surprised, but the boy did not say anything.

They sat in silence for a few moments before Voldemort decided that he should strike up a conversation. Corner was not the name of a noble pureblood house, and he certainly had nothing to do with Voldemort's existing supporters.

"What house do you think you'll be in?" he asked the boy. It seemed to be a very common concern for incoming Hogwarts students. He remembered being asked at least several times on his very first train ride.

Corner shrugged. "Hufflepuff, maybe. Mum was in Hufflepuff. I really want to go to Ravenclaw, though. What about you?"

"I don't know." he decided to say. "Maybe Ravenclaw or Slytherin. Or Gryffindor. My parents were in Gryffindor." It was incredibly unlikely that he would be sorted into Gryffindor, but Corner did not need to know that.

"Do you think it matters what house we want to be sorted into?" Corner asked. Voldemort thought about it.

Logically, "Probably. Otherwise people might protest." In that case, then, he supposed he would do his best not to be sorted into Slytherin. It would be the least productive house for him.

"How do you think we get sorted? Mum wouldn't tell me." Corner said.

"I don't know." Voldemort replied, as expected. The Sorting Hat was a surprisingly well-kept secret to first years, given that most of the wizarding population knew about it. It was a bit of a tradition not to reveal it to new students until the last minute.

The compartment door slid open again with a dull thud, and both occupants glanced over, startled.

"Hermione." Voldemort greeted, recognizing the bushy-haired girl at the door.

"Oh, Harry, hello." she replied. "Have you—have either of you seen a toad? A boy named Neville's lost his."

This sort of hassle, precisely, was why he did not want a pet. Though in some cases, having a magical familiar could increase the strength of one's own magic, most Hogwarts pets did not serve this purpose and were simply annoyances.

"Have you tried summoning the toad?" he asked Hermione, while Michael Corner informed her that he had not seen the animal in question.

"I read about the summoning spell. It's a fourth-year spell, though." she said worriedly.

"The prefect's carriage is behind this one, I think." He knew it was, in fact. He pointed Hermione on her way and shut the door. Taking out his parchment and quill again, he tapped the parchment surreptitiously with his finger to shift the link away from Harry's parchment, and began making notes about Michael Corner, talking with him at intervals to glean more information.

The only other disturbance for the duration of the ride came from the trolley witch, who had plenty of candy to sell. Michael Corner bought himself a pile of chocolate frogs, and Voldemort purchased one in the interest of seeming childish. He was not particularly fond of sweets, but magically manufactured chocolate did have some mentally bolstering properties.

Opening the package, he snatched the frog out of the air as it made to leap away and studied the charm work on the wriggling creature, taking a moment to appreciate the complexity of the enchantment. The chocolate moved fluidly, and when he bit it in half, he discovered that while the inside was solid, the outside was liquid, meaning that there were also flexible containment charms allowing it to move while keeping it from smearing everywhere.

Corner was not nearly as interested in the activity of his frogs, and was instead shuffling through the pentagonal cards in his hands. "Dumbledore, Morgana, Barne. Nothing good." he said.

"You collect?" Voldemort inquired, and received a nod. He swallowed the rest of his frog and took a look at the card he had got. "Cornelius Agrippa."

"You're kidding!" Corner demanded. Voldemort obligingly angled the card so that the other boy could see. "You've got unbelievable luck. That's probably the rarest card there is!"

"Do you want it?" he asked. Corner gaped at him, his eyes going wide.

"Do I want it?" he repeated dazedly to himself. "I couldn't…"

Voldemort smiled to himself and put the card into the boy's hand. "Don't worry about. I don't collect them or anything."

"Really?" Corner asked, but did not wait for a reply. It was obvious he greatly desired the card. "You're amazing. Thank you so much. So much." He held up the card in the light, observing it with unbridled glee on his face as if it were some sort of holy artefact.

"Collects choc. frog cards. Status: friendly." Voldemort penned. A tap of his finger and the new information dissolved from the page, joining the rest of the notes on Michael Corner in his desk journal, still stored safely at his home.

Soon enough, the train had pulled up to Hogsmeade Station, and a witch's voice announced that their luggage should be left where it was. Disembarking, Voldemort's eyes immediately caught on the imposing figure of a huge man waving a lantern.

"Firs' years, follow me!" Shouted the man over the din of clattering feet. "Firs' years this way, firs' years!"

* * *

A/N: Wow. Sorry for the late update. I could have finished this ages ago, but I got stuck about halfway through and couldn't figure out what to do. Forced myself through that part, so it's probably not that great, but I'm not sure what to do about it. I did manage to iron out some plot details that will make themselves apparent later on, though. The process involved several outline changes, so if anybody notices a plot hole or an inconsistency here or in the future, please speak up before it gets really bad.

Also, a big thank you to all the people who reviewed the last chapter. It really helped me get through my little bout of writer's block.


	11. The Philosopher

Note: All dialogue in this chapter is presumed to be in German, unless otherwise noted. There may or may not be things actually written in German for flavour.

* * *

"Hey, Kolya, can I borrow your Theory book again?" Harry called, panting as he rushed after his friend, whom he had just caught sight of crossing the next intersection. Kolya obligingly slowed down for him and turned to dig his Magical Theory textbook out of his backpack.

"I don't see why you can't just owl-order your own copy." Kolya told him as Harry brought out a spare bit of parchment to note down the homework problems. Harry flushed.

"It's easier this way." he said, ignoring Kolya's sceptical snort. He himself wasn't sure why he insisted on sharing a book, but as it was already nearly halfway through the autumn semester, he figured it would be silly to buy his own copy now. Magical Theory changed textbooks every semester, anyway, more than any other class.

Harry was glad he had signed up for the course. It was at least a sight more interesting than Divination, whose professor Harry was convinced was at least slightly batty, and Magical Theory really helped him with his wand work, which at the start varied from excellent to atrocious, often unpredictably, but had settled down to a little above average. Professor Waffling had been very understanding about Harry's last-minute choice and had had no problem allowing him to join the class a week late. It hadn't taken Harry too long to catch up anyway, since some of the introductory material resembled the advice Lord Voldemort had always given Harry about magic.

"Here. Thanks." Harry said, handing the textbook back. Kolya stowed it in his bag, which he slung over his shoulders.

"No problem. I need to go to Gobbledegook. Kravt tok!" he said, setting off down the hall again.

"Kravt tok!" Harry replied with a grin. It was the only thing he knew how to say in the goblin language. Kolya had taught him the all-purpose greeting for fun, and Harry had taken a liking to the fierce phrase.

Since he had a free period at the moment, having just come from Transfiguration, Harry decided he would get started on his homework. Trekking down the hall and up a tight spiral staircase until he reached Abstract Tower, he entered the Demiguise dormitory's common area after giving a seemingly random brick in the wall a good kick, which revealed the entrance.

He found Professor Hausdorff sitting in a corner by the fire, smoking a pipe and marking a stack of homework. Harry settled down at a nearby desk and took out his maths assignment, figuring that he had better do it now while the professor was here; if he had any questions he could just ask them immediately.

"Mr. Branch!" Professor Hausdorff said suddenly. Harry glanced up, only to find a roll of parchment flying at him. He managed to catch it by the tips of his fingers.

"Thank you, sir." he said, unrolling his homework. He sighed in relief at the dark red "A" inked at the top. He had been afraid that he'd completely failed the last assignment, but it seemed that he hadn't needed to worry. It wasn't the best grade, but it was still a mark above passing. He had been placed into the third year Mathematics class, which despite its name had anything from first to seventh years attending, and had been having a little trouble, but he liked the class nonetheless.

Thankfully, they were past the trigonometry section, which had perplexed him beyond belief, and were now talking about things called "limits." Strangely enough, it was now Harry's turn to breeze through the work and the rest of the class's turn to groan. The other students had trouble contending with the idea of infinity, while Harry found it perfectly reasonable. Therefore he was working steadily through the current homework without any issues and had finished after only twenty minutes, during which Professor Hausdorff remained curled up in his armchair, still occupied with grading.

Casting a drying charm with a careful twirl of his wand, Harry rolled up his completed assignment and slid it into his rucksack. Then he resigned himself to doing his Transfiguration homework, which was of a more practical nature. Rolling up his sleeves, he extracted the button from his bag and set it on the table. His goal today was to transfigure the button into a spoon that would last for more than five minutes. All the students would have to demonstrate their ability to do so at the start of the next class, which would be in two days, on Thursday.

Harry was terrible at Transfiguration. He had an E in the class, but the grade meant nothing. So far, he had managed to get by because everybody got so much time to do everything. Harry had no problem succeeding at transfigurations…eventually. His problem was with succeeding on the first, second, or even twentieth try.

At least the incantations for transfiguration were a simple matter. Harry had done away with them entirely, because he found them pointless—in Magical Theory, he had already learned that the incantation provided a tool for "essential focus," which helped narrow the result. An incorrect incantation paired with a wandering mind could create disastrous results. Since Harry never had any problems transfiguring something correctly, he decided that the incantation only got in the way.

Incantation or not, though, Harry still could not get the button to turn into the spoon. He could see it perfectly in his head—the spoon itself, the process, everything—but magic refused to happen. Scowling at the stupid button, he jabbed his wand at it again.

Nothing happened. "Just turn into a spoon already!" he muttered, poking the bit of round wood in annoyance. It did not turn into a spoon. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he focused on the spoon again.

"_Verto Löffel._" He tried the incantation. It didn't work.

"_Muto spoon._" He tried an alternative incantation he had found in the library, with the English name this time. It still did not work.

He wanted the stupid button to turn into a spoon. Jabbing it heatedly with his wand again, he watched the disc shimmer angrily before it finally became a silver spoon in an instant, with a vine pattern on the slightly curved handle, just as Harry had imagined it.

"Finally." he muttered, picking up the spoon and inspecting it, still feeling dissatisfied despite his success. It had taken more than five minutes to get the transfiguration to work. A few seconds later, his fingers closed on air as the spoon turned back into a button and clattered onto the table. "Mist!" he cursed, then remembered the professor sheepishly.

"Mr. Branch, I suggest you take a break." Professor Hausdorff advised placidly, all without looking up from his grading. Harry glanced at the clock and sighed.

"I have to go to class in fifteen minutes anyway. Thanks though." he told his professor.

"If you ever need any help, don't hesitate to ask." Professor Hausdorff replied.

Harry shoved the button back into its pouch and grabbed his bag, heading up the stairs to his room, which he shared with a quiet second year named Lothar Graf, to exchange his Transfiguration textbook for his Defence one. Then he hurried out of the tower and downstairs to the second floor. Harry liked to arrive early for Defence so that he could get a seat in the front row. It was his favourite subject by far, not least because he was actually good at it. So far, every spell they had cast (only three, but still) had succeeded for him on the first try.

When he arrived at the classroom, he found that only two other people had got there before him. Claiming his desired seat, he settled down to wait. Defence was a core class, which meant that everybody had to take it, so the first year class had only first years. Because there were so many first years, there were actually two sections of the class, one on Tuesdays and Thursdays and the other on Mondays and Wednesdays.

This was the case for all core classes. Annoyingly, Harry had ended up separated from Kolya in all five core classes, though he had managed to land in the same section as Alvin in Charms, Potions, and Defence. Besides Kolya, Alvin, and his roommate, Lothar, Harry had not made any other particularly close friends, and he knew only about a fifth of the first year population by name, mostly because they either lived in the same dormitory as him or had been his partners before in class.

Harry had found out that not all purebloods were as kindly tolerant as Kolya. At least half the school was pureblood, noble or not, and most of the students looked down their noses at half-bloods. For the most part, Harry and "his kind" were shunned quietly, but at times nasty words and even hexes were exchanged in the corridors.

Harry could only take heart in the fact that Nate did not tolerate such behaviour, even if some of the professors couldn't care less. And people listened to Nate. The soft-spoken, faceless headmaster could give a low, disappointed reprimand: "All magic is sacred, remember that," and the culprit would hang his head in shame and never again be seen mouthing off about blood status. This effect perplexed Harry as much as it pleased him.

Nate was a mystery. Nate was intriguing.

Harry wanted to know who Nate really was.

After Defence, where they were assigned a standard scroll of parchment on how to deal with hinkypunks, Harry and Alvin headed outside to enjoy some fresh air, though that air turned out to also be bitingly cold.

"Don't you think it's weird?" Harry said, gesticulating wildly.

Alvin rolled his eyes. "Maybe his face is disfigured or something. It's not that weird."

Harry shook his head. "But seriously. No one has _ever_ seen his face."

"Ever?" Alvin repeated sceptically. "How do you know that anyway?"

"Er, well…" Harry didn't exactly want to admit that he'd nosily asked a few upper years. He knew Alvin would tell him that they might just be pulling his leg. But Harry believed what they had said.

Alvin took his reluctance for a total lack of evidence. "See? You're seeing something where there's nothing."

Kolya was waiting for them at the front door. He joined them, synchronising his step seamlessly as they reached him. "Harry going on about the rector again?"

"Of course." Alvin confirmed. Kolya sighed exaggeratedly and Harry prodded him in the shoulder in annoyance.

"I am just saying that it is weird that he wears that hood all the time and uses that spell. Also, he doesn't have a last name." Harry reiterated.

Alvin snorted. "Magic is _weird_, Harry. He fits in with that just fine."

Kolya hummed thoughtfully. "Actually, it is quite odd that he has not disclosed his name."

"He could be a half-blood." Alvin pointed out. Harry cursed his friend in his head. That theory actually fit—it would explain why Nate was so against blood purism in his school, and why he would not give out a name. Then again, it didn't explain why everybody respected him so much. Harry pointed this problem out smugly.

"He's powerful." Kolya replied. "People respect power."

Harry had nothing to say to that. Lord Voldemort was half-blood too, he reminded himself, and had plenty of purebloods under his thumb.

Still, something told him that Nate was different. But he decided not to try to convince his friends again for now, since they only seemed to be growing more sceptical by the minute.

By the time they reached the far side of the keep, near the Quidditch pitch, where several indiscernible figures were rocketing around on broomsticks, Harry had come up with another set of reasons why Nate was suspicious, though he wasn't about to voice them.

It was apparently common knowledge that Nate never came to Durmstrang personally and used a projection spell because he was paralyzed from the chest down and lived on an island in the middle of the North Sea. Harry didn't believe a word of it; if Nate was a powerful wizard—which as far as Harry could tell, he definitely was—then he would just be able to _fly_, never mind being paralyzed. Even Harry could fly, and Harry wouldn't call himself powerful by any stretch. He couldn't even properly transfigure a button into a spoon. And even if the projection spell was easier, surely Nate wanted to get out at least once in awhile?

So Nate had to have another reason for never showing himself, or his face, for that matter. If his face was disfigured, Harry knew that there were temporary glamour charms and self-transfigurations to fix that. A shadowed hood was, in his opinion, just about as creepy as a messed up face. So Harry concluded the Nate's face was not disfigured. Nobody had ever claimed that it was, anyway; that had just been Alvin's proposed explanation.

If Nate's face was fine, then it meant he had another reason for concealing his identity. What Harry still could not get over was the fact that he used a hood instead of a charm, transfiguration, or potion. Actually, he revised, Nate did not need to change his real features at all. Since he "went" everywhere using his projection spell, he could project himself looking like anything he wanted to.

Then again, from what Harry knew about projection spells, which he had researched at the beginning of his interest in (or obsession with, as Alvin would put it) Nate's identity, it was insanely difficult to project oneself looking remarkably different from one's true appearance for long periods of time, since one had to keep the image of oneself firmly in one's mind. The most common method of projection was through use of a mirror, which made it unnecessary to imagine the projection since it would be in front of one's eyes.

At any rate, Harry's hypothesis was that Nate was afraid somebody would recognize him if he did anything but completely obscure his features. He was also a powerful wizard who either could not or did not want to leave his home in the North Sea for some reason—actually, the bit about the North Sea might be false, for all Harry knew. And once again, Nate also had never revealed his last name to anyone, which was just ridiculous.

Frankly, it was a mystery to Harry how Nate had even become the headmaster of Durmstrang.

"How do you think he got to be the rector with all the secrecy stuff?" Harry asked aloud. His friends groaned, and he scowled. "It's a legitimate question!" he added.

Alvin sighed. "The Board of Governors probably knows all about him. He just doesn't want the public to know." he said.

"No, that's not it at all." Kolya replied, looking quite surprised. Then he grinned. "You really don't know how the rector is chosen?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Of course we don't. Why else would we be asking? So, what is it?"

Kolya let them hang for another supremely annoying few seconds before he replied. "_Der Sturmbecher."_

Harry stared at him. "The Storm Beaker." he repeated, attempting to raise an eyebrow and managing to wrinkle his face unbecomingly. Kolya nodded.

"You put your name in it on a slip of parchment and it spits out the one it likes best." he explained.

"What?" Alvin demanded, aghast. "That's horrible. How can a—a cup decide something like that?"

"How did he get his name in if he's stuck in the North Sea?" Harry wanted to know. Kolya ignored Alvin entirely and looked at Harry like he was an idiot.

"Obviously he asked somebody to put the parchment in. As long as he was the one who signed the name, the ink would have had traces of his magic." he replied.

"So how does it decide who's the best?" Harry asked. Kolya shrugged.

"I don't know, but it was enchanted by the founder of Durmstrang, so I figure it's reliable." he answered. Harry thought that that was a rather dubious reason to trust the Storm Beaker, but did not say anything to that effect. Alvin probably thought the same, for he looked rather constipated.

Instead, Harry asked, "So do they put it out when the rector retires, or once a year, or what?"

Kolya hummed contemplatively. "I think anyone can put a name in whenever." he said finally. "The beaker's always on display in the artefacts room, anyway."

"It is? I've never seen… oh." Harry had walked past the artefacts room probably hundreds of times. He thought he knew what the Storm Beaker was now. The name had, for some reason, evoked a picture of some fancy goblet with a stem, but there wasn't anything like that in the artefacts room. There was, however, a tall, hourglass-shaped cup with two handles, made of some shiny metal, put up prominently in the centre display.

"Yes." Kolya affirmed, nodding. "And every time somebody puts a name in it'll reveal the worthiest candidate and erase the rest that are inside."

"How do you know that anyway?" Alvin asked.

"Because it's common knowledge." Kolya replied with finality. Alvin scowled. Harry patted him on the arm.

"Don't worry; as you can see, I had no idea either." Harry told him in a commiserating tone.

"Anyway," Kolya added, "Since Sturmbecher chose Nate, he must be the best choice of rector."

"I guess." Harry said reluctantly. "Also, I'm freezing."

Kolya looked at him oddly. "It's not cold enough to get through warming charms. I mean, my face is kind of numb, I suppose…"

Harry ducked his head slightly in embarrassment. "My robes haven't got warming charms."

"I thought warming charms were standard." Alvin said. Harry shook his head.

"I was going to request that my lord enchant them, but he didn't come back home before term started." he admitted.

"Well, do you know how to cast a warming charm?" Kolya asked. Harry shook his head, sighing.

"That's third year material." he pointed out.

Kolya frowned. "So are cleaning charms."

Harry supposed he had a point. He wasn't great at charms, but he wasn't bad either, and he could admittedly clean things with magic. He wasn't quite ready to call it a cleaning charm, because it wasn't; there was no incantation and no wand movement. There wasn't necessarily even a wand involved. He could just do it.

Frowning, he took his wand and pointed it at himself, imagining that he was warm, as if he had been sitting by a toasty fire.

A minute later, he was slightly warmer, if only because he had worked himself into a fit of frustration. Annoyed, he stuffed his wand into his pocket. "It's not working." he informed his friends, who were laughing at him silently. "It's not funny. Let's see one of you do a warming charm."

"Oh no, Harry." Kolya muttered through a smirk, "Neither of us are genii like you."

Harry buried his face in his hands. "Not this again! I told you I'm not a genius. I'm barely above average here." he said, placing great emphasis on "average."

"Aha, the key word is above." Alvin responded, prompting a groan from Harry.

"But seriously," Kolya said, quite seriously at that, "you're very good at certain kinds of magic. I think you should take Dark Arts in your third year."

Harry looked up, startled. "Dark Arts?" he repeated, feeling a bit of a twist in his chest. Logically he knew that the Dark Arts weren't evil, but they were often used to do despicable things. Harry knew that Lord Voldemort wasn't just a dark lord; he was also a dark wizard, and Harry shouldn't have any trouble with it. Still, it was difficult to imagine himself casting something like the cruciatus. despite knowing that Lord Voldemort was quite fond of it (or perhaps because of this knowledge).

"I can tell what you're thinking." Kolya said. "You're just like the rest of the British wizards, thinking the worst. We're hardly going to learn the Unforgivables in class."

Alvin made an offended sound, presumably at the perceived slight against British wizards, but Kolya ignored him. Harry shook his head quickly. "That wasn't what I was thinking at all." he lied. His whirling thoughts quickly latched onto a viable—actually, a very valid—excuse: "It's just that I thought the prerequisite for that class was Ancient Studies. And I'm not taking Ancient Studies."

Kolya relaxed slightly and waved a hand dismissively. "Don't worry about that. All of the third year elective prerequisites only require one year of instruction." This was news to Harry, who had assumed that he was supposed to stick through at least two years of his elective choices. "That means you can take Ancient Studies next year to fulfil the requirements. If you have too much work just drop Divination. I know you think it's idiotic."

Harry had to admit that dropping Divination sounded like a great idea. Still, he wasn't quite sure about Dark Arts. "I guess." he said ambivalently, but Kolya seemed to take his answer for assent. He then turned to Alvin.

"You should take Dark Arts too. Professor Pavlichenko is one of the foremost experts in the field. It's a great opportunity." Kolya explained. Contrary to feeling pleased, this information made Harry even warier. Didn't that just mean that Pavlichenko was a dark wizard through and through? Having a teacher like that seemed rather dangerous. The Dark Arts were all about destruction, and Harry had read somewhere that excessive use of the Dark Arts eroded human compassion. Lord Voldemort certainly wasn't a paragon of morality.

"I don't want to drop any of my electives, though, and I don't think I can handle four." Alvin protested. Kolya stared at him with wide eyes.

"You mean you really want to go through all five years of Astronomy?" he practically demanded. Alvin copied Kolya's expression of surprise.

"What's wrong with Astronomy?"

Kolya shook his head. "It's useless! Don't you know what you start doing in second year?"

Alvin frowned. "Yes. We learn about how stars and planets are formed, and some astrophysics." He seemed somewhat excited by this prospect. Kolya wrinkled his nose.

"Exactly. And that's what you'll be doing for the rest of the years, learning useless muggle drivel, and it will be a massive waste of time and magical potential, especially since it's impossible to actually go into space. Trust me, you'd be much better served learning the Dark Arts."

Alvin looked absolutely scandalised. "What do you mean it's impossible to go into space? Muggles have already done it with their so-called 'drivel.' They've gone to the moon and there are muggles in space stations all the time."

Kolya looked at him as if he were stupid. "Yes, Alvin. _Muggles_. In case you forgot, we're _wizards_, not muggles. If we go too far from the Earth there won't be enough magic left and we'll die."

Harry had never heard about something like that, and apparently neither had Alvin. Harry interjected, "But I thought we create magic by living, not the other way around."

Kolya nodded. "That's right, but most of the magic is absorbed right back into our bodies. In the vacuum of space it would be sucked out of us and we'd die from the shock."

Harry hummed. "How do we know that? Has somebody tried?"

Kolya shot him a withering look. "Of course people have tried. It's not hard at all for a wizard to get into space. He just has to apparate to the moon wearing a containment shield and a bubble-head charm. But it's no good. Instant death."

Alvin still looked sceptical. "What if you put him in a muggle spacesuit on a muggle spaceship? Maybe you could design something that would stop the magic from getting sucked out. Maybe it's impossible for now, but it might be possible in the future."

Kolya sighed. "Hm, maybe." he muttered. Harry could tell he did not believe it. "But either way, let's get back to the point. Astronomy is still useless compared to the dark arts, at least for now, so you should take Dark Arts."

Alvin opened his mouth, no doubt to argue something else, but Harry, not in the mood to see a row, cut in, "Hey, I'm really cold now. I think my fingers are about to fall off."

Kolya turned to him in concern, glancing at his hands. "Let's go back to the keep. Do you want to see Healer Wei?"

Harry shook his head. "No, that's fine. I think I just need to get somewhere warm."

They stood and began the trek back over frozen earth. The Quidditch pitch was empty now, so they took a shortcut through it and approached the back entrance of the fortress.

There was still a noticeable draft inside, but it was much warmer than it had been outside. Harry put his frozen hands to his frozen face and shivered slightly, trying to wiggle his fingers to help them thaw.

"We should really find an advisor to cast a warming charm for you." Kolya remarked.

"It's really not that bad." Harry muttered. "You two can go back outside if you want."

"And freeze our faces off? No thank you." Alvin interjected. "You're not the only one who was getting cold."

Ahead of them was the main hall, and there were several groups of students milling about. Suddenly, Kolya grabbed their hands and dragged them toward an occupied alcove at the bottom of the grand spiral staircase. Harry quickly divined that it was actually Sergey Savchenko who was leaning against the wall, presumably conversing with several friends. Savchenko looked up and saluted at the sight of Kolya, before he turned to Harry.

"Cold?" Savchenko asked with a wry grin as he surveyed Harry's purple fingers. He whipped out his wand, a knobby thing of dark wood, and flicked it sharply. Harry felt his hands warm up immediately and he nodded gratefully.

"Thank you." he said, feeling suddenly shy under the gaze of several upper-years.

"No problem at all." Savchenko replied cheerily. "Warming charms wearing off already, ja? Cheap craftsmanship." He shook his head knowingly. Harry didn't bother correcting him. Savchenko then barked something in Ukrainian at Kolya, who shook his head as the older boy's two friends, a tall, dark-haired girl and a stocky, blond boy, both laughed, leading Harry to assume that they were also Ukrainian.

"I feel out of the loop."Alvin remarked cheekily in English. Harry shrugged. Kolya quickly mumbled a farewell and pulled them up the stairs, leaving the chortling teens behind them.

"What was that about?" Harry asked. Kolya snorted.

"Sergey likes you. He thinks you're cute." he replied with an air of disdain. Harry made a sound of disgust, though privately he felt glad that he had made a good impression on the older boy. He hated the way half the school seemed to despise him solely on account of his blood status. Somehow, Alvin, despite really being a "mudblood," had avoided the issue entirely because everybody assumed he was a pureblood. With a prominent name like Pyrites, who had any reason to look deeper?

Though Harry knew the reasons, he still resented the fact that Lord Voldemort had not chosen him a better surname. Or perhaps he should have lied and pretended to be from a poor but pure family nobody had ever heard of. But even the thought made Harry feel queasy. He couldn't imagine having to back up such a complicated lie without getting caught out. The issue of his new name was confusing enough on its own. Even months into the autumn term, he still caught himself slipping once in awhile when he signed his essays.

On the subject of assumed names, something new occurred to Harry, though he did not bother informing his friends, who had made their opinions about his suspicions of Nate clear enough. What if Nate was using a false name? It wouldn't be that odd. Harry was pretending to be somebody he wasn't, after all, and Lord Voldemort certainly hadn't been named Voldemort by his mother (the notion was laughable).

Harry groaned inwardly at the thought. Nate's true identity and purpose only grew further from his grasp the more he thought about the subject. He admitted that he had spent a few late nights procrastinating on his homework by searching through Durmstrang's old yearbooks for people named Nathan. Now it seemed that his efforts had been pointless.

After lunch, as they went for an aimless stroll during a free period, they passed by the artefacts room on the second floor and Harry could not resist asking about the Sturmbecher, which he now recognized for what it was, displayed on its own pedestal.

"Do you have to write your real name to put it in the Sturmbecher? How does it even recognize the letters?" he asked Kolya, who seemed to be an authority on the subject.

They paused and Kolya pointed him to the information written on a plaque beside the display. Harry scowled at it, and then at Kolya. "It doesn't tell me anything I don't already know."

"What makes you think I know, then?" Kolya replied levelly, shrugging. "I'd guess that the enchantment works solely on the magic it detects, so no, it wouldn't matter what got written on the paper. But I imagine it would be hard to identify somebody as the rector if the paper came up with a scribble on it or the like."

"Right." Harry agreed. He was privately both cheered and disappointed. It was possible (even likely) that Nathan's name was not really Nathan. But that made discovering who he really was exponentially more difficult.

"I know you're still thinking about Nate." Alvin said. Harry scowled.

"So what? He's interesting." he muttered.

"So is our Charms homework." Alvin pointed out.

Harry froze, falling behind his friends. "What Charms homework?" He had Charms with Alvin in less than an hour. Terror began constricting his chest. The Charms professor already disliked him enough as it was.

Alvin stared at him incredulously. "You didn't know? I thought something was wrong when you didn't come to our study session yesterday. It's a few paragraphs on wand movements for the blowing charm. I guess you missed the announcement because you were late. I didn't realize."

Harry winced. He had almost forgotten about Charms the previous Thursday, as he had been playing a particularly vicious game of Wizard's Chess with Kolya in the upper recesses of Abstract Tower. Only the intervention of the ever-responsible Professor Hausdorff had saved him from missing class entirely.

"I guess you two are off to the library, then?" Kolya asked. Harry nodded, quickly running through all the things he knew about the blowing charm's wand movement in his head. It was similar to the whistling charm, which was the first charm they had learned in class, but he thought the circular movement was more pronounced and there was an extra jab at the end, or something. They weren't going to attempt it until next week, and Harry hadn't bothered studying it very diligently. This assignment would be the first time they would have to write about wand movements of a spell they hadn't yet learned.

"Do you think I'll be able to finish it in an hour?" Harry asked Alvin. His friend patted his arm reassuringly.

"Don't worry, it only took me fifteen minutes after I read the chapter." Alvin turned to Kolya questioningly, "Do you want to come with us?"

Kolya shook his head and made a face. "No. I've finished all of my work already. I have an appointment with Professor Hausdorff soon anyway."

"Really, why?" Harry asked. The only time he had ever had a formal appointment with Professor Hausdorff was when he had been absolutely stuck on a homework problem. He couldn't imagine Kolya having any trouble with Mathematics, however. He had placed into the fourth year class but had decided to take third year Maths anyway, because he thought his knowledge was rusty (Harry didn't believe him). Harry had no idea how Kolya had found the time to learn all of things he knew.

"I want to see about taking Arithmancy in third year without having taken Divination." Kolya explained. Harry wrinkled his nose.

"Good luck with that." he replied. "As much as I hate Divination, I can see how you need it for Arithmancy to make any sense."

Kolya frowned. "Still. I could study it over the summer, at least. I'm definitely no seer, and I find Pollak… unsettling."

Harry shrugged. "Professor Pollak's a nice person, really. But I'll admit she's not such a great teacher. Anyway, Alvin and I'd better get going. Kravt tok."

Kolya waved goodbye and continued down the hall as Harry and Alvin took a right turn into the corridor that housed Durmstrang's library, which was mostly populated by textbooks of all sorts instead of the type of fun reading that occupied Harry's bookcase at home.

"So what was the assignment exactly?" Harry asked.

"Describe and explain the wand movements for the blowing charm discussed in chapter six of the text." Alvin recited. Harry hummed.

"Explain? Like the reason for it?" he asked. Alvin nodded.

"It was sort of confusing, but I just used the stuff we learned about in Theory. Do you want to look at what I wrote?" He reached into his bag, but Harry shook his head.

"No. Maybe later. I don't want to accidentally cheat." Harry said firmly. Teachers at Durmstrang were quite hawk-eyed when it came to detecting plagiarism, and the punishment was sometimes as severe as expulsion. The assignment did not seem too difficult, anyway. Magical Theory really was an advantage when it came to explaining why things were the way they were, which Harry supposed made sense, and he was sure he would be able to finish before Charms started, even if it wouldn't be his best work.

Indeed, twenty minutes later, as they prepared to go to class, Harry cast a drying charm on his parchment and watched the shine of the ink disappear as it turned jet black with some satisfaction. He thought his quickly-penned work would at least net him an E, which as far as he was concerned was more than good enough. Unlike Kolya, Harry wasn't obsessed with getting straight O's or being first in their year.

The way to charms led them past the artefacts room again, and Harry was hard-pressed not to skip Charms entirely to test out the new theory that had suddenly jumped into his head out of nowhere. He bit his lip in an effort not to say anything to Alvin, who was so conveniently nearby to share the news with. Harry reprimanded himself silently; he needed to learn some discretion and curb his desire to blurt out his suspicions to everybody all the time. For all he knew, Nate already knew all about his exploits and had either taken measures to prevent his success or was just laughing at him, holed up in his cosy room somewhere in the North Sea, hood over his face.

Harry scowled at his traitorous imagination.

He could hold out until after Charms. It was the last class of the day, and there would still be three hours until dinner. There was no way his friends could keep him occupied the entire time, especially as both Alvin and Kolya had other friends—far more than Harry did, in fact, but Harry did not resent them for it, most of the time at least.

Harry deposited his homework on the teacher's desk and moved to sit down in the second row, where there were plenty of seats open. Alvin declined to sit beside him and went all the way to the back; he didn't much like the class. This section of first-year Charms was smaller than the other one, so there were fewer students than desks.

The door flew open violently, startling several students despite the fact that it happened every time, and Professor Dolohov stalked inside aloofly. She gave a negligent wave of her wand and the stack of homework disappeared, probably banished off to her office. Woe to anybody who showed up late; he or she would get a T for missing homework. Harry had learned that painful lesson first-hand last Thursday. It had dropped his Charms grade from E to A, and he knew he would have to work harder than he liked to make up for it.

Lord Voldemort had not specifically demanded that Harry turn out good grades, but Harry didn't think the Dark Lord would appreciate it if Harry only scraped a passing grade, or worse, failed something. He was paying for Harry's education, after all, even though he was under no obligation to do so.

Also, even though he wasn't a perfectionist like Kolya, Harry did have some pride.

Professor Dolohov began her lecture on the intricacies of the blowing charm, and Harry quickly pulled out a bit of parchment to take notes on. He was, sadly, not particularly organized, and his notes usually ended up on random scraps here and there. Somehow, Harry still managed to get by.

The piece of parchment in his hand looked familiar, for some reason, and different from his other parchment, though it was blank. As Harry dutifully recorded Professor Dolohov's warning that the wind came out in a plane and a sufficiently overpowered blowing charm could take off somebody's head in a duel (Harry got the uncanny feeling that she had first-hand experience), he saw the words he had put down shimmer and then sink into the parchment.

Harry cursed in his head. He had accidentally taken out the linked parchment, but it wasn't as if he could get out another piece. He would have to lean over and unbutton his rucksack, and then rummage around inside to find something blank—Professor Dolohov would definitely notice, and she hated disruptions of any kind. The last thing Harry wanted was negative attention. He had enough it if for being a half-blood, without having done anything.

When he looked down at his parchment again, he saw that words had blossomed on it in Lord Voldemort's narrow, impeccable hand.

"Interesting, but likely an unintentional message. Should I cancel the enchantment?"

Harry thought about it, but scrawled a quick, "No." Then he added, awkwardly, "I can't contact you then." He wondered briefly if he should append "my lord," but decided that Lord Voldemort would probably just snicker at him for his efforts.

"Do try to be more careful." was the response.

"I will." Something occurred to him. "Any news on my mum?" He had been supremely annoyed after the last time Lord Voldemort had contacted him with the news that his mother was apparently just fine, and had been unable to explain anything.

He waited with bated breath. The next message appeared, "AD hid her for protection." Harry wondered for a few moments what "AD" was before he nearly hit himself for being stupid—Albus Dumbledore, of course: Headmaster of Hogwarts, Supreme Mugwump, some other important things, and Lord Voldemort's number one enemy.

"Thanks." he wrote back, for lack of anything else to say.

"Are you not still in class?" appeared on the page. Harry lifted his quill to write a reply, but the parchment was snatched out from under his nose. He looked up slowly to find the stony face of Professor Dolohov staring at him. He cursed himself for not realizing earlier when the lecture stopped that he ought to have also stopped writing.

"Passing notes, Mr. Branch?" she asked softly. Harry shook his head. Fortunately, by the time she turned the parchment over to look at it, it had already cleared itself of Lord Voldemort's last message. She narrowed her eyes at the blank page. "Then what is this?"

Harry thought quickly. "It's enchanted." he began, searching for something that wouldn't incriminate him. "It stores my notes, er, somewhere else." he finished lamely, but convincingly, he hoped. Sadly, Professor Dolohov still looked sceptical.

"I see. Then how do you recall them?" she asked. Harry could have hit himself. What now?

"You can't. They go into my notebook." he lied. He knew she did not believe him.

"I don't believe you." Professor Dolohov said bluntly, a moment later.

"I swear it's true." Harry added, though he didn't know what he would do if she asked to actually see the fictional notebook. Remembering suddenly that legilimency needed eye-contact, he made sure not to look the professor in the eyes, just in case, even if it made him look guiltier.

"It's not worth wasting more class time." Professor Dolohov finally declared, to Harry's relief. He panicked again, though, at her next pronouncement. "Detention with me immediately after dinner today."

Harry winced, but dared not protest. It was an entirely unfair (if not unmerited) detention, but he didn't want to know what she would try to do if he said anything. She might discover for certain that he had been lying about his notes, and then he would be in real trouble for lying to a teacher.

It was only after the lesson resumed that Harry realized she had not returned his linked parchment. He cringed inwardly, hoping that she would not try writing anything on it. Lord Voldemort was an absolute genius, Harry reassured himself. He would know that something was wrong. But Harry somehow doubted that Lord Voldemort would see it that way if Professor Dolohov learned anything, so he knew he would have to get that parchment back before she had a chance to tamper with it.

Harry couldn't concentrate when they were told to practice the wand movements. He could only glance surreptitiously at Dolohov's pocket at every chance. At least she hadn't banished it to her office, he thought, attempting to remain optimistic, though some real fear was creeping into his chest, twisting his stomach. He needed to remain calm. Harry twirled his wand absently in the proper movement for the blowing charm as he plotted.

The first thing he thought of was somehow summoning the paper out of her pocket, but he immediately discarded the idea as too obvious and also impossible to pull off, since it involved a fourth-year spell. A switching spell was similarly dismissed because of its difficulty, which was a pity because it was an excellent solution. Harry hissed under his breath in frustration as he realized just how few spells he knew. He was only a first-year, after all.

But Harry knew more magic than he knew real spells, he reminded himself. He could clean things, unlock and open things, and fly. None of these skills were very useful in this situation, but perhaps he could learn to do something else. After all, if these were possible, why not others? In Magical Theory the possibility that magic could do absolutely anything had been discussed. Though it was an idea disparaged by experts and Harry was inclined to agree, it wasn't as if he wanted to move stars or raise the dead—he just needed to be able to switch two things.

How hard could it be?

When Professor Dolohov wasn't looking, Harry nudged his rucksack closer to his chair and opened it up with some clever movement of his foot. Then he pretended to scratch an itch and managed to fish a piece of parchment into his lap. He continued practicing the blowing charm's wand motion while he thought furiously about what he was going to do.

He needed to switch the parchment with the one in Dolohov's pocket. It wasn't a matter of mere desire—Harry did not want to know what Lord Voldemort would do to him if he somehow compromised any plans. He wasn't certain how much damage the parchment might do in Dolohov's hands, and supposed he might be overreacting, but he definitely did not want to risk anything.

Harry set his left hand on the parchment in his lap and glared at Professor Dolohov's pocket out of his peripheral vision. He could see the top bit of his linked parchment sticking out of her robes. He wasn't sure how switching spells worked, but he imagined the parchments disappearing into void-space like they were apparating and then taking each other's place.

"Come on, come on." Harry muttered to himself, focusing.

And then there was a double pop of displaced air and Harry could tell that he had succeeded. Professor Dolohov whirled about at the sound and Harry froze, hoping fervently that she didn't look at him. Luckily, a girl sitting a few desks away from him happened to suddenly shriek and drop her wand, where it clattered on the floor and rolled away as she scrambled after it. Harry quickly stuffed his parchment into a pocket as Professor Dolohov moved to reprimand the boy behind her, who had apparently accidentally cast the charm and hit her with it. Crisis averted, Harry sighed in relief.

"Remember to practice the incantation separately from the movement. But a very good job on being the first to cast the spell anyway, Mr. Montmorency." Professor Dolohov told the boy, ignoring the girl who had sullenly retrieved her wand and returned to the exercise.

"Favouritism!" Alvin complained heatedly as they walked out of Charms without homework, for once. "Just because Montmorency's father is some kind of big-shot and you're a half-blood… you're way better at magic…"

Harry listened to him rant with some amusement and annoyance. One would think that Alvin had been the one given detention unfairly, with the way he was going on about Dolohov. Personally, Harry was quite relieved that he had got the parchment back, and couldn't care less about the detention.

He changed his mind after Kolya began regaling him with horror stories about Durmstrang detentions, which made Harry worry all the way until dinner as he holed himself up in the Abstract Tower, where his sympathetic friends kept him company.

"Professor Dolohov's not very creative." Kolya informed him as they sat down for dinner, "So she'll probably just use the most painful thing she can think of. Of course she's a charm's mistress, so that's going to be the flaying charm. Professor Pavlichenko is worse, of course—you never want a detention with him—but she definitely takes second place on the pain scale."

Alvin's eyes were as wide as saucers. "Flaying charm?" he repeated with horror. Kolya frowned.

"Well, I don't think it's as bad as it sounds." he said, though his words weren't particularly reassuring.

"How do you know?" Harry asked him. He didn't think Kolya had ever got a detention before. In fact, Harry himself had never got a detention before either.

"Father's told me all about it, of course, so I won't go out of my way to get detentions." Kolya explained.

"Nobody goes out of his way to get detentions." Alvin pointed out. "It just happens."

Kolya shot him a withering look. "You had to have done something wrong, at least."

"Harry didn't do anything wrong!" Alvin protested. Harry felt warm at his friend's defence, but he felt obliged to be honest.

"Well, actually, I wasn't really taking notes. That's why I didn't complain about it." he admitted.

"Still." Alvin insisted, "That's not enough reason for a detention."

"At least it'll only be ten minutes, tops." Kolya interjected. "So you won't be wasting your entire evening. I'd rather get Dolohov's flaying charm than Hausdorff's lines. Of course I'd rather never have detention at all, but you know what I mean."

"Are you mad?" Alvin demanded. "Lines sound just fine. This—this is barbaric."

Privately, Harry agreed with Kolya. Copying hours of dry text for Professor Hausdorff sounded at least as torturous as getting cursed. Or charmed, as was the case here. Harry wasn't sure, however, why something as ominous as flaying was even called a "charm."

"What do you mean barbaric?" Kolya asked. "It's not as if there's permanent damage."

Alvin looked rather flabbergasted. "What does that have to do with anything? It—it just is."

Harry returned to his food as Alvin and Kolya began bickering about discipline, British culture, and muggles. He still wasn't hungry, but he forced himself to finish at least what was on his plate. The charm couldn't be worse than the cruciatus curse, could it? Then again, Harry knew that Lord Voldemort severely underpowered the cruciatus curse when he used it on Harry, enough that it probably would be considered legal, since it also left no physical injury.

Harry had worked himself into a mild panic by the time a smirking Dolohov came to collect him for his detention several minutes after dinner had ended and the hall had emptied, Kolya and Alvin having wished him luck and left. He had to fight to keep his legs from shaking.

"You'll learn to pay more attention now, little mudblood." Dolohov sneered at him. "I don't tolerate shenanigans in class." She made several more inflammatory remarks, but Harry wasn't really paying attention (ironically). He wondered if she was just crazy, or if "mudblood" was an insult that applied to half-bloods too. He would have to ask Kolya.

He stopped thinking about it when Professor Dolohov pointed her wand at him. A blast of familiar purple light erupted from the end and broke into ribbons, undoubtedly the instrument of flaying. What Harry noticed immediately, however, was that the flaying charm looked awfully like the tickling charm.

As the streams of light wrapped around him and dug into his skin, he discovered that the unseen fingers were now scraping instead of tickling, and it made him squirm uncomfortably, though not quite in pain. He took a quick glance upward and, from the rather concerned expression on Dolohov's face, discerned that he apparently wasn't feeling as much pain as he was supposed to, and immediately screwed up his face and began making pathetic sounds.

Inside, Harry was rejoicing and thanking Lord Voldemort for his overuse of the tickling charm. It looked like the flaying charm was related, and some of the resistance Harry had gained against one had transferred to the other.

After several minutes, during which Harry had theatrically fallen to the floor and the charm, held continuously, had started to really hurt, Dolohov finally cancelled the spell and kicked Harry out of her office.

As Harry limped quickly up the deserted stairs, rather sore despite his slight resistance, he nearly collided with a white-faced barn owl, which swerved to the side at the last moment. Harry's turned to track it as it made a wide arc in the air and landed on a nearby banister. What was an owl doing inside? And with no letter, at that?

Because he wasn't paying attention, Harry walked straight into Nate, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere—in fact, he probably had—and managed to go through the projection of the man, which he discovered was not a pleasant thing to do at all; it felt as if he had been tossed into a bucket of ice water, and the black smoke at the edges of the projection clung to him for a few moments afterwards, leaving him shivering.

"Sorry sir." Harry said quickly as he recovered his composure. "I didn't see you."

"Quite all right." Nate replied. This close to the projection of the man, Harry could see under the hood, but only swirling dark mist was to be found. "What are you doing out here alone, Mr. Potter?"

Harry was surprised that Nate recognized him. He wondered if the man knew about his digging around after all. Harry tried not to flush. "I just came back from detention, sir."

"Ah, I see." Nate replied. Though Harry couldn't see his face, he got the distinct impression that the man was smiling gently. "Well, carry on then. Don't let me keep you from your friends."

"Right, thanks. Have a good evening, sir." Harry replied awkwardly, turning to walk away.

It was only when he found himself alone, standing in front of the second-floor artefacts room, that he realized the rector had called him "Mr. Potter."

Coldness permeated his being. Harry stood frozen, unable to comprehend what exactly had just happened. All he could think was: "How did he know? How could he know?"

Once he managed to get a hold on himself, Harry cursed himself for not noticing earlier and protesting. Instead, he had nodded along to Nate's words, and now the rector definitely knew that he answered to "Mr. Potter." Recalling the linked parchment still in his pocket, Harry pulled it out nervously, wondering if he should tell Lord Voldemort.

The thought of even doing so made him feel faint, so Harry stuffed the parchment back into his pocket. Nate was the rector of Durmstrang. He probably had nothing to do with Lord Voldemort's plans in Britain, and besides, Harry couldn't be the only Harry Potter around. He definitely wasn't the only person with the surname Potter. For all he knew, perhaps Nate had simply mistaken him for somebody else.

Catching sight of the Sturmbecher, shining softly in the starlight from the high windows, Harry remembered the idea that had struck him before the disaster that had been Charms, and decided that he might as well go through with it. If Nate really was onto him, Harry's next act would hardly make things any worse.

Taking out a normal piece of parchment, he tore off a corner and used his self-inking quill to write "Harry." Then he stepped up to the hourglass-shaped cup and, before he could lose his resolve, tossed the slip of parchment inside. He peered over the edge and saw that the dark water had begun to swirl, and he nearly jumped backwards as previously invisible runes at the edge of the beaker glowed a bright blue for a moment.

Then, the water inside the Sturmbecher shot up in the air and began twisting itself into loopy writing, announcing the name of the chosen rector.

It read: "Nathan der Weise."

* * *

A/N: If you don't get it, google it. If you still don't get it, that's because the plot is convoluted. I've actually deviated from/taken liberty with canon events a lot more than simply with the bits involving Lord Voldemort and the prophecy, but it mostly involves continental Europe, which wasn't much discussed anyway, so prepare for weirdness.


	12. Hogwarts

The Sorting Hat fell on top of Lord Voldemort's head and obscured his vision of the Great Hall. Harry had a rather small head, he noted.

"Hm… plenty of deviousness and ambition…" The voice of the Sorting Hat reminded Lord Voldemort that he was not alone. Furthermore, it confirmed that, whatever it was the Hat did, it wasn't legilimency.

"Not Slytherin… not Slytherin," Lord Voldemort thought harshly to the Hat, making certain to project the words as if he intended to speak them.

"Not Slytherin, eh?" For a moment, Lord Voldemort felt a flicker of hope.

Then the Hat shouted, "SLYTHERIN!"

Lord Voldemort's face twitched uncomfortably as he held back a scowl. He pulled the hat off his head and handed it to Professor McGonagall, who had a slightly pinched expression on her face. It was to be expected, as she was the head of Gryffindor House, Slytherin's eternal rival. He should have known that outwitting the Hat would have taken an effort involving a barrage of spells and enchantments, as opposed to a mere exchange of words. At any rate, placement into Slytherin was only a minor inconvenience, even if he would rather have been in one of the other three houses.

Straightening his posture, Lord Voldemort strode over to the right-most table and sat down at the end beside Draco Malfoy, who resembled his grandfather remarkably. Lord Voldemort would need to remember not to address him as "Abraxas" by accident. Across the table from him, Theodore Nott, who had been sorted shortly before Voldemort, sat rigidly upright with taut shoulders. Voldemort was surprised the boy was not quivering.

He watched with interest as the rest of the first years were sorted, making mental notes on whom he ought to make overtures to, which consisted of nearly the entire non-Slytherin population. Voldemort was uncertain whether that was fortunate or unfortunate.

Lord Voldemort did not tolerate failure, not even from himself, and so he stood to gain a great number of new followers and enemies. Neutrality for major families would be out of the question when it came time for open revolution. "Making friends" with all of the students would be a long and arduous process, but Voldemort did have seven years, and if he had managed it before in his youth, then he would be able to do it again.

Hazel eyes from the Ravenclaw table caught his and Michael Corner waved. Lord Voldemort put on a smile and nodded at the other boy.

The sharp, resounding clink of silverware on glass immediately silenced the rising hum of voices in the hall and drew everyone's attention to the centre of the head table, where Dumbledore had stood from his throne-like chair.

Lord Voldemort took in his elderly adversary's uncharacteristically reserved attire of plain, deep blue robes and frowned slightly. Perhaps it was a trick of the flickering light from the erratically suspended multitude of candles, but Dumbledore looked weary, as if he had not slept for several nights. And though he smiled and his eyes twinkled still with the weight of his wisdom, Lord Voldemort could detect an undercurrent of worry in the man's expression, likely invisible to all but those who knew him well.

During his Hogwarts years, Voldemort had considered it his task to discover as much about Albus Dumbledore as he could. He'd come up with infuriatingly little, other than the fact that Dumbledore had a brother who owned a bar and was fond of goats, and a sister who had died in his childhood. He also knew that Dumbledore owned a property in the partly magical village of Godric's Hollow, the same property on which Lily and James Potter and their son Harry had hidden under the _fidelius_.

It remained a mystery to the general public what, exactly, had happened that night. The Potters were remembered, along with dozens of others, as victims of Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters. A week after the fact, Minister Bagnold, likely at the direction of Dumbledore, had announced that she believed the threat of Lord Voldemort to be over, and some hesitant celebrations had ensued. When no attacks followed for the next year, the people at last began to believe.

Rumour had it that the Potters, the last known victims, had done something to off Lord Voldemort, but the claims were never substantiated, and any evidence had long been erased. Voldemort knew that Dumbledore seemed to believe that Harry Potter was somehow responsible, but had met with frustration in figuring out how.

"Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!" said Dumbledore. "Thank you."

He sat down, and Lord Voldemort tracked the relaxation that seemed to blossom across the man's face as the hall erupted into laughter.

A drawled, "Mama says he's a madman," reached Voldemort's ears from nearby, and he looked up to see Blaise Zabini, sitting at the end of the table beside Theodore Nott, spooning potatoes onto his plate. Varying murmurs of assent rose up around him.

"He is the Headmaster, though," remarked Draco Malfoy. "My father says Dumbledore has a lot of support from the other members of the Board."

At once, the very people who had only just been agreeing with Blaise were now nodding to Draco's words. Lord Voldemort felt at home.

"He wished to cheer us. Ease our reservations," he contributed, pouring himself a glass of water. He detested the overly sweetened pumpkin juice that Hogwarts served.

"By saying nonsense?" Blaise challenged sceptically. "Harry Potter, was it?"

Voldemort nodded, inquiring, "Blaise Zabini?"

They shook hands awkwardly over the table, and Blaise grinned at him. From beside them, Draco, certainly not about to miss out on such an important moment, also introduced himself and shook hands all around, though he did not bother Theodore Nott, who still looked rather reserved.

As the students began working on the sumptuous feast that the elves had prepared, Voldemort took the time to explain that Dumbledore had got them all to make light of their own insecurities. "It is not nonsense. They are all things we wouldn't want to be."

Blaise screwed up his face, apparently in thought, but at last only nodded. "He's still a nutter," he declared, before returning to his potatoes.

Lord Voldemort gave a lazy smile and scooped buttered peas onto his plate along with a slice of roast. He enjoyed his food slowly. The pleasure of a rich tapestry of tastes dancing across one's tongue and the contentment of a full stomach—those were beautiful aspects of life. Life was intriguing. It was magical. He never wanted it to end.

He heard Draco squeak beside him, and looked up to find the Bloody Baron floating above the spread of food. The Baron stopped to stare at him, before he turned to Voldemort.

"Your Lordship," Voldemort addressed him, giving him a polite nod. Ghosts had always disturbed him, but he had become inured to their effect after years at Hogwarts. Elsewhere he had never met another ghost. The Bloody Baron returned the gesture, surveyed the rest of the first years, and then floated off to the other side of the table. Draco's colour returned very slowly, but eventually he went back to his food.

"Ghosts," Blaise said, wrinkling his nose and shaking his head. "They give me the jitters." Draco agreed.

As the main course cleared away and was replaced by an equally dizzying selection of desserts, a tall, blond girl, perhaps a sixth or seventh year, stepped over to the side of the table on which the first years had congregated and sat down neatly between Vincent Crabbe and Pansy Parkinson, whereupon her robes settled and the gleaming purple prefect badge on her chest became visible.

"Welcome, young ones, to Slytherin—naturally the best house of them all. I'm Gemma Farley, prefect. How's that pudding?" Gemma spoke very quickly, and the last question had been directed to Gregory Goyle, who was staring at her in surprise, a spoon halfway to his mouth.

"Er, it's good," he finally managed to say with a weak smile. He had just put his spoonful of pudding into his mouth when Gemma slapped him on the back, apparently hard enough to make him choke, for he dropped the spoon and began making gagging sounds.

"Oh, sorry!" She grabbed her wand and flicked it violently, murmuring, "_Anapneo_." Gregory sputtered and then took a swig of pumpkin juice.

"Er, thanks," he said.

Gemma shrugged sheepishly before she reached for a helping of treacle tart and dug in eagerly. The first years watched her for a few moments in astonishment before they continued with their meal in rather awkward silence. It seemed, however, that Gemma would not stand for it.

She put down her fork and looked around at them all, making eye contact. "You look like an all right bunch," she began. "So I'm just going to say this once. You got into Slytherin, which means the Hat saw something special in you, and that's the desire to be great. And to be great, you need to be respected. So make sure everyone respects you and your house. That means giving your best. Got it?"

As everyone nodded vigorously, Lord Voldemort reflected that this introduction was rather different from the one he had received initially upon joining Slytherin House in his youth. No one had needed to be told, then, that Slytherin meant greatness, or how to achieve it.

Even when a perceived "mudblood" like himself had been sorted into the house, everyone accepted him without making much note, though they had found him low-class. Yet, in the past fifty years, the idea of what a mudblood was had changed markedly. Once, they were disdained for being culturally ignorant and, often, magically inept. Now, as the magical prowess of the average wizard waned, mudbloods were actively blamed for the decline in power, the erosion of tradition, and everything else that was wrong with the world.

But that sort of attitude was at the same time unacceptable in the current society. It was associated with Lord Voldemort, and of course Lord Voldemort had been a terrorist on the wrong side of the law. So there was a subtle warning for the Slytherins, most of whom were from aristocratic pureblood families: to be respected was to say the right things at the right time.

"Who are all the teachers?" Draco asked Gemma. Voldemort turned to listen for the answer, as he was also curious; he recognized only a few of them.

"There on the left end is Professor Sinistra. She teaches Astronomy. That's Vector next to her; she's Arithmancy. The guy with the missing bits is Kettleburn, Magical Creatures. Next to him is the Muggle Studies teacher, but I forgot her name," Gemma admitted. Some people laughed and Draco scoffed.

She continued, "Then there's Professor Sprout for Herbology; she's Hufflepuff's head. Next to her is Professor McGonagall, Transfiguration and head of Gryffindor, our rival house. That's Headmaster Dumbledore, of course. Next to him is our Head of House, Professor Dagworth; she teaches Potions. That's Professor Flitwick for Charms—he used to be a duelling champion, I heard, and he's the head of Ravenclaw. The bald bloke is Professor Quirrel; he used to teach Muggle Studies, but if I have to guess he's going to be teaching Defence this year. We get a new Defence professor every year. Some people say the position's cursed."

Voldemort hid a smile. He had no desire to teach now, but it was gratifying to see Dumbledore still suffering for refusing him the position so many years ago.

"Finally, that's Filch. He's a filthy squib but he can still take points and give detentions, so don't get on the wrong side of him. We need to win that Cup this year after Hufflepuff got it last year. Can you believe it? Hufflepuff," Gemma muttered. There were murmurs of agreement.

Spooning a small amount of vanilla ice-cream into his mouth and relishing the numbing coldness on his tongue, Voldemort watched Gemma move to daintily consume vast quantities of treacle tart while Gregory beside her shovelled more pudding into his maw.

"No afters for you?" Voldemort asked Blaise.

"Too full," was the response, accompanied by a small groan.

Gemma laughed. "The feasts are always amazing. Don't get too used to it," she advised. Then she turned to Pansy Parkinson and engaged her in a conversation about school events.

"So, Harry," Draco said, setting down his silverware, "Are you by any chance related to the Noble House of Potter?"

Voldemort gave Draco a nod. "I'm the heir," he said. Draco seemed surprised to hear that information.

"My father told me that the Potter line ended. Hm. I did think it was strange that they weren't listed in _Nature's Nobility_ as extinct, though." Draco replied. He seemed rather torn, and Voldemort gathered that it was over the fact that his father had been wrong, despite being Draco's admired authority figure. In Lord Voldemort's experience, Lucius was wrong more often than was preferred, but in this case he was glad to know that the existence of Harry Potter had been well-kept from even his closest followers.

"Nobody knew I was alive until recently," Voldemort told Draco. "I didn't even know I was Harry Potter before I got my Hogwarts letter."

"How does that work?" Blaise demanded, having apparently been listening in on the conversation. Draco nodded at him to indicate that he would also like to know.

"My mum," Voldemort found those words very strange in his mouth, "said that I got lost somehow after our family was attacked, so I got taken in by muggles. I used to be called Eric."

"Muggles?" Draco repeated, clearly astonished. "What was that like?"

Voldemort arranged his face into a contemplative frown. "Oh, not too terrible," he said. Draco looked far from convinced, which, of course, had been the idea.

Just then, the plates cleared, returning to their pristine, golden state, and Dumbledore stood up once more. This time, everyone quieted before he had a chance to tap his glass.

"Now that we're all fed and watered… well, I'm certain you would all like to get to bed, so I'll keep this short. First, we have a few staff changes this year. Please welcome Professor Quirrell in his new position as the professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts." Polite applause rose up from the students. Voldemort surveyed the somewhat sickly-looking bald man at the table with mild interest. "And let's welcome back Professor Burbage, who has decided to stay on as the permanent professor of Muggle Studies." More applause, this time somewhat scattered. The smiling, doe-eyed young woman whom Gemma had been unable to identify stood up and waved.

Once the clapping died down, Dumbledore continued. "The list of forbidden items at Hogwarts has grown to include cat-trip cream and Plackard's Plot Powder. The full list can be found in Mr. Filch's office. First years should know that the ForbiddenForest is, as its name implies, forbidden. All students should also note that the third floor corridor on the left side is off-limits to those who do not with to die a painful death."

Lord Voldemort contemplated this strange restriction as some hesitant laughter rang out across the hall. Dumbledore looked quite serious, however. Voldemort supposed that, for all Dumbledore claimed to support the rights of muggle-borns, the man had grown up a wizard and did not understand them.

While any pureblood or even half-blood student, having been raised to realize the dangers that magic could pose, would understand the grave warning for what it was and make sure to avoid the forbidden corridor religiously, thick-headed muggle-born students would do the opposite. All humans were rather contrary, in that they liked to do exactly as they are told not to do, but even a very young wizard in a magical family knows that safety lines are not to be crossed, whereas many muggle-borns seemed to lack this concept entirely.

It would be hypocritical of Lord Voldemort, of course, to ascribe that nature to all muggle-raised wizards and witches. He himself, after all, had learned common sense quickly enough. He found it amusing that muggle-borns often criticized wizards for having no common sense when really it was they who were applying the wrong type of sense to the magical world.

Voldemort would acknowledge, however, that wizards were rather lacking when it came to logic. An ordinary wizard did not need to use logic, after all, to live his day to day life. He only needed his imagination and his willpower. There was no reason for him to understand how anything worked—it simply did, per his desires.

"…and before we retire," Dumbledore said, raising his wand and conjuring yellow ribbons, "the school song! Pick a tune and sing along." The ribbons twisted themselves into words.

"Hoggy Warty Hogwarts…"

Though in his first few years at Hogwarts the apparently pointless school song had irritated the stuffing out of him, so that he never deigned to open his mouth, Lord Voldemort had at last come to appreciate the true nature of the tradition in his seventh year.

Inventing a random tune on the spot, he made certain to sing along with the words as enthusiastically as he could. He was no musician, but the beauty of musical magic was that it did not matter. Some people went as far as to cover their ears, but if one truly listened and did not fight the music, one would realize that, against all logic, the sound was not cacophonous, though neither was it exactly euphonious. One could characterise it as a pleasant, incomprehensible roar.

The magic of the Hogwarts Song did not do anything, precisely, but that certainly did not imply that it served no purpose; it was only important that it was magic, likely the very first magic a wizard did upon entering Hogwarts's halls. The spell, a slow and continuous discharge of magic, was led by the Headmaster, and everyone who sang the song contributed. Casting the guided spell would accustom students to magic and make the subsequent casting of real spells come slightly more easily, especially for the students who had done no magic for the entire summer or those first years whose episodes of accidental magic were long behind them.

Lord Voldemort had no need to participate in the song, but he knew that doing so marked Harry Potter out with a different attitude from the one Tom Riddle had had at the start of his Hogwarts education. Tom Riddle had been sceptical and mistrustful; Harry Potter was cheerful and optimistic. The real Harry Potter would have certainly participated.

Whether or not Dumbledore noticed was irrelevant. What was important was the mere possibility of Dumbledore noticing. First impressions were vital. Though he had already met Dumbledore over the summer to identify himself as Harry Potter, Voldemort knew that Dumbledore had not had enough interaction with him to come to any kind of conclusion. When the time came for Dumbledore to properly appraise him, he would need to seem firmly different from the likes of his younger self.

The song finished after a pair of redheaded twins at the Gryffindor table at last completed their slow and solemn dirge, and Dumbledore dismissed everyone. Gemma Farley stood up from her seat and gathered the first years around her.

"First years! We'll be taking a bit of a tour along the route to the Slytherin dorms. Follow me. Mervyn, my illustrious colleague, will be right behind you to make sure you don't sneak off," she told them all, before she turned and began leading them out of the now nearly empty hall. It seemed that the rest of the houses had already exited.

Lord Voldemort stood quickly, watching with amusement as some of the other first years rose sluggishly, likely due to their unknowing expenditure of magic several minutes ago. Just like using too much logic, using too much magic was intellectually exhausting and left one feeling languid, though of course the latter was easier to achieve. Overfull stomachs and a long day probably did not help matters.

The trek to the Slytherin common room was familiar, and Voldemort found his feet easily remembering the way even after so many years. At intervals, they stopped while Gemma pointed out distinctive statues and paintings. Then they descended into the dungeons, where the walls were devoid of decorations.

His nose welcomed the slightly sour scent of the damp dungeon air. As they neared their destination, he found that he still recognized the blank patch of wall in the corridor, though it had no special markings to distinguish it from any other stretch of stone. If one looked closely, it did seem just a little cleaner than the surrounding masonry.

In a cunning fashion typical of Slytherin, there was a small, squiggly relief of an adder at the bottom of the opposite wall that was barely noticeable by one who was not searching for it. Of course, the older students who knew the way had no need for the symbol, but it was a great help for first year students and would not immediately alert students of other houses to the actual location of the entrance.

"Ancient sea," said Gemma Farley clearly. The wall clicked and sunk backwards before sliding to reveal an opening wide enough for two people. "That's the password, by the way. It's posted on the notice board inside and changes every fortnight, so don't forget to check. Make sure you tell no one outwith Slytherin about it," she warned. "It's been seven centuries since a non-Slytherin has gone inside."

Gemma led them down the narrow set of stairs that descended into the long, rectangular common room. Green stained-glass windows set into the rough stone walls showed a distorted view of their watery surroundings, and the room was dim, lit only by little green light enchantments hanging at intervals from the high ceiling. Each of the dozen study tables lining the edges had its own torch candle to provide working students with sufficient illumination, but at the moment none of them were lit.

"The girls' dormitories are this way; the boys', that way," Gemma said, pointing right and then left. "After curfew, nasty things will happen if you try going into the wrong dorm, so don't. Curfew is from eight in the evening to six in the morning for you firsties." She paused and then stepped to the right. "Girls, follow me."

At this point, the male prefect, Mervyn, moved to the front of the group of remaining boys. "Right, I'm Mervyn Wynch," he told them. "If you'll all follow me…" From his somewhat anxious posture, Voldemort deduced that he was as fifth year who was undertaking prefect duties for the first time.

The boys followed Mervyn through the archway on the left side of the room and then down a steep flight of stone steps. As they walked, Lord Voldemort glanced at the plaques on the doors. The corridor in which his original room had been located was currently marked, "3."

They stopped at the second to last door from the bottom, marked, "1." Mervyn looked over the line of first years crowded on the steps and clasped his hands together nervously. "Right, so, your hallway assignments will stay the same for your entire time at Hogwarts, and so will your rooms, theoretically, but in practice it's fine if you want to switch rooms, as long as everyone involved agrees."

Then Mervyn flicked his wrist, and his wand appeared in his hand. "Okay, pay attention, everyone. This is your hallway pass-movement." Mervyn sketched his wand in a circle and then whipped it diagonally upwards for everyone to see. Then he turned to the door. "See the square outline there? You want the shape to fit inside pretty well. There's no need to have your wand touch the door."

Mervyn repeated the motion inside the square, whose outline flashed for a moment before the door clicked open. "You're not supposed to tell other years your hallway pass, but this is Slytherin, so everybody knows all of the movements in about a week anyway, and chances are that the sixth and seventh years already know yours."

Some tired laughter came from several of the boys. "Right, so, rooms are already assigned, but you can sleep wherever you like in this hall. So get yourselves sorted out. Good night." Mervyn ushered them inside before he shut the door. Voldemort looked about the small group of first years contemplatively. There were usually seven rooms per hallway, each of which was meant to house two students but could take up to four in a pinch. At the end of the hall was a communal bathroom. In Tom Riddle's year there had been eleven first-years, which had not allowed for much movement, but now there were only six.

Draco Malfoy seemed to have figured things out, because he announced, "There are six of us and seven rooms, so we can each have our own room."

They soon discovered the problem with this declaration, however. The rooms had already been assigned, as Mervyn had mentioned, and they were all paired up. The four unused rooms were lacking bed-clothes. Voldemort snorted; he supposed that having a roommate would make it easier to make "friends" for now, but it probably was not worth the loss of privacy.

"We can ask our Head of House about it tomorrow," Voldemort advised. The other students agreed and retired to their assigned chambers.

Harry Potter had been put in the same room as Theodore Nott, the first one beside the door. Blaise and Draco were together somewhere in the middle, and Vincent and Gregory were in the last room before the bath.

"Hello, I'm Harry Potter," Voldemort said to Theodore, holding out his hand. The other boy looked at him uncomfortably but took his hand.

"Theodore Nott," he replied quietly. The boy looked somewhere between frightened and resentful. Lord Voldemort tried to deduce what could have him feeling like that but was unsuccessful.

He met Theodore's eyes for a moment and allowed himself to sink briefly into the surface of the other's mind. The trick was to draw the foreign mind to sympathize with the invading desires. This was the easiest application of legilimency, as he was looking for the other's opinion on himself, or in this case, Harry Potter. Theodore would feel nothing suspicious, for he was already looking directly at Harry Potter.

And of course it quickly became obvious what the problem was. Voldemort quickly detached himself from Theodore's thoughts and gave him a disarming smile. The Potter family, in the past few generations, had grown increasingly progressive and liberal, and had been fully against Lord Voldemort's goals. Theodore's father, Theodore Sr., was a known Death Eater and was currently incarcerated in Azkaban. Theodore had probably never even met his father, but lived under the shadow of the man's reputation nonetheless.

"It's nice to meet you," Voldemort told Theodore. "Are you from an old family like Draco?"

Theodore looked like he would rather say nothing, but instead, answered, "Not as old as the Malfoys. But pretty old."

"You must know a lot of magic, then," Voldemort replied, injecting some childish wistfulness into his tone. "I only just learned that I was a wizard."

This news seemed to cheer Theodore up a little. "Oh. Well don't worry. Have you tried any spells yet?"

Voldemort nodded. "Yes, a few charms from the textbook."

Theodore smiled at him uncertainly. "You're probably even ahead of me, then. I've only read the first chapter of all my books." He yawned. "Sorry. I'm rather tired."

"So am I," Voldemort agreed, closing his eyes for a moment. In reality he was not at all tired, having not exerted his mind nearly as much in casting the magic of the school song as the first years undoubtedly had. Fortunately, the four-poster beds had thick hangings that could be closed and silenced. No one need know that he was doing anything other than sleeping.

Theodore took out his wand and pointed it at his own face before twirling it expertly. Voldemort recognized it as a freshening charm, but inquired, "What's that?"

Theodore seemed confused. "What's what?"

"That spell you just used," Voldemort clarified. Theodore looked surprised.

"It's just a freshening charm to keep my teeth clean. You point your wand at yourself and say _eluo_," Theodore instructed. Voldemort repeated the motion, concentrating, and smiled as he felt the usual sensation of something liquid having swirled very quickly through his mouth.

"Thanks," he said. Theodore nodded at him.

"You got it on the first try. Good job. It took me three," he admitted, yawning again. "Good night, I suppose."

Theodore pulled his robes over his head and went to dig through his trunk, presumably for pyjamas.

"Good night," Voldemort replied, turning to his own trunk. He changed, grabbed his new journal and a self-inking quill, and then went to sit on his bed, letting down the dark green hangings, which were secured to the posts by silver ribbons. He then flicked his wand and put a sticking charm on the opening, twirled for an area silencing spell, and then cast a _lumos_. With another flick of his wand the light detached from the end and hung a little above eye-level.

He opened up his journal and tapped it, linking it back to the main journal he kept in his desk. Then he took his quill and began detailing the things he knew about the people he had encountered. Self-inking quills were an amazing invention, despite that the magic behind them was not particularly complicated, as it simply linked the quill tip to the designated inkwell. Voldemort still remembered the abundance of ink-stains that had resulted from attempting to write things in bed with an ordinary quill and its inkwell balanced precariously on a knee.

The teachers he still knew little about, so he did little more than label several pages with their names. So far, all of the children he had met were "friendly." Of course, most were only first years, and all in his house. It remained to be seen whether he could attract members of Gryffindor.

He had done it as Tom Riddle. Despite the strong rivalry, made even stronger by Quidditch, most of the Gryffindors had respected and even liked him, especially after he became Head Boy. As a prefect, he had learned that being fair and accommodating made him genial in the eyes of most Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors, who expected blatantly self-serving behaviour from Slytherins. It was a silly misconception that selfishness was usually obvious, and Lord Voldemort was glad to take advantage of it.

Finishing Draco Malfoy's entry, which he left fairly short, as Lucius's son was unlikely not to follow in his footsteps, he let the words sink into the page, shut the journal, and set it on his bedside table, extinguishing his light charm and pulling the bed-covers over his body. It was always cool in the Slytherin dungeons, even in the summer, and it would be bone-chillingly frigid in the winter without the roaring fires and liberal warming charms the house elves applied on a daily basis.

Making himself comfortable, Lord Voldemort closed his eyes and breathed deeply, occluding until he fell asleep.

* * *

(Long) A/N: A rather short chapter, I know, but as I decided to make this project NaNoWriMo-like, I'll be writing every day, which means there will be more updates. As usual, I want to thank all my readers for their support.

Also, I have gone back through the entire story in an attempt to correct my English so that it's more British, seeing as I used a great number of Americanisms that I wasn't even aware of. That said, there might still be a few instances of "outside of" and such that I missed. It really does not help that some idiots decided to translate Harry Potter into "American" before selling it here, and that that is the version I own. I have never been to Great Britain, and as far as I'm aware there are also a large number of rather different dialects floating around there... but I'll try my best, and would appreciate it if people can point out any errors I repeatedly make.

Speaking of errors, I also discovered that the way I punctuate dialogue has been incorrect since I started writing (-facepalm-). I'm really surprised that nobody has pointed this problem out. I've fixed most of that as well, but I probably missed something. If anybody notices something else that I repeatedly do incorrectly, _please_ offer corrections and criticism. This includes points about Harry Potter canon; there are some things that might be too late for me to change, but it's good to be aware of them.

On that note I want to thank **Rumour of an Alchemist** for pointing out that Snape should have gone to Dumbledore even before Lily died in canon. This is completely true, and my head-canon fails. I can only suppose that Lord Voldemort seems more trustworthy to his followers in my AU.


	13. A Doppelgänger Adventure: Part I

It was the first day, or rather night, of the winter holiday, and it was freezing. Harry quivered in his boots as Dobby led him up the slush-covered path to Lord Voldemort's cottage, which glistened in the watery illumination of rows of light enchantments like a Christmas card.

"Hey, Dobby," Harry muttered, teeth chattering, "can you teach me how to do a warming charm?"

"Harry Potter is not supposing to do magic during holiday," Dobby replied. Harry was affronted for a moment before he realized that the elf was teasing.

"Come off it, Dobby," he laughed. Dobby beamed at him.

"Of course Dobby is teaching how, but first we go inside," replied the elf, snapping his fingers. Harry suddenly felt like a wall had come between him and the frigid wind. He sighed in relief, flexing his frozen fingers.

"Thanks, Dobby," he murmured, squinting as they approached the front door, where several large icicles had formed threateningly above the threshold. The orange light from the enchantments pierced the cloudy ice only partially, so that the icicles glowed with liquid fire. Harry wondered whether they might fall on his head. Wasn't it dangerous to leave them?

"Hey Dobby," he said again, and the elf turned to him as they stopped. "Should we really let those icicles stay?"

"They add a nice touch," Harry heard himself say, and he jumped; he hadn't said anything! Turning swiftly, he came face-to-face with his old self. Harry had become so used to seeing limp blond hair in the mirror that he found himself surprisingly undisturbed at the sight of his counterpart in person.

What was disturbing, however, was the fact that Lord Voldemort was most definitely not supposed to be there. The last Harry knew, his lord was spending his time masquerading as Harry and living with Harry's mum. Harry wasn't sure what to think about that, but had felt a little bit of resentment that it wasn't him, the real Harry, going off to do that. Most of that was probably Dumbledore's fault, though, since he was the one who had made Lily pretend to be loony and therefore unfit to raise him.

"Er, my Lord?" Harry managed weakly. Lord Voldemort nodded at him, looking pensive.

"Come with me," he told Harry. "Dobby, take his luggage to his room."

"Dobby is doing so," Dobby said. Harry handed his trunk to the elf, who disappeared with a quiet pop. Then Harry turned to Lord Voldemort, who beckoned him to follow as they entered the cottage through the front door, passing under the icicles and then into the warm but dim interior.

"Hood up," Lord Voldemort commanded, and Harry pulled the furred edge over his head. A flick of Lord Voldemort's wand and his cloak seemed to have been transfigured into a thinner, black material.

On the way upstairs, Harry almost jumped when he saw a skeleton leering at him from the darkness at the top of the stairs. Lord Voldemort shooed it away down the hall, and Harry realized that it was actually a person, but a person so emaciated that he looked like a corpse. Harry shivered.

They stopped before the door to the master bedroom, which served as Lord Voldemort's study, and Harry could not help noticing that the doors to the other two bedrooms, which were almost always ajar, had been closed. There was an air of uneasy secrecy to everything.

Lord Voldemort opened the door to his study with a wave of his wand and ushered Harry inside. The room was very neat, almost ridiculously so, and looked entirely unused, which he supposed it had been for the past half of the year. Harry noted that even the potted plant that usually sat behind the desk looked like somebody had forcibly straightened it to make it symmetrical.

"Wait one moment," said Lord Voldemort. Harry waited, pulling off his hood so that his hair would stop tickling his nape, and Lord Voldemort strode over to the closet on the other side of the room. He slid the door open, entered, closed it, and some muffled shifting of clothing could be heard inside. Harry wondered what was going on for several seconds before the closet opened again and Lord Voldemort stepped out, now looking like his old self—thin, dark hair, deathly pale skin, red eyes, and all.

Harry was impressed, and wondered, idly, how Lord Voldemort had done it. He knew enough about magic to realize that such drastic disguising was probably far beyond him. The secret was probably inside the closet, but Harry wasn't stupid or curious enough to attempt to look inside when Lord Voldemort obviously wanted his methods to remain secret.

"I have a task for you that, alas, no one else can do," Lord Voldemort told him. Harry thought there was no need to sound so upset about it.

"Er, what is it, my Lord?" he asked, when it seemed that Lord Voldemort was not going to continue. But the man only frowned slightly.

"It will be simple, I hope. I need you to be Harry Potter again, while I deal with the rest of my servants," he explained.

Harry stared at him. "Er… I don't think I get it," he admitted. Lord Voldemort raised his wand and Harry almost flinched, but he only felt a sudden lightening of his head and a bareness about his neck. Reaching back, he found that his hair was short again. He pulled some of it forward and managed to ascertain that it had also darkened until it was almost black, like his natural hair colour.

Impatiently, Lord Voldemort clarified, "You're to go your mother's home and allay any suspicions while I am gone. I do not have time to instruct you in all the details, so I am going to put you under the imperius curse so we can communicate. Understand?"

Harry was caught somewhere between euphoric and horrified. He was going to see his mother, and the feelings that that knowledge evoked were confusing at best. He had always dreamed of having parents, but at the same time, the thought of that dream actually coming true, sort of, was frightening. What would his mother be like? What was having a mother even like? Fiction had been a terrible source for understanding something like that, seeing as most protagonists were orphans, or at least quickly had nothing to do with their parents after the story began.

And then, there was the caveat Lord Voldemort had mentioned. "The imperius curse?" Harry repeated slowly. The curse was called an Unforgivable for a reason, was it not? Harry was uncertain what exactly this reason was, beyond its difficulty to combat, but the idea of it being cast upon him still made him rather nervous. Were there side-effects?

But Lord Voldemort only seemed irritated. He raised his wand again and then Harry was filled with the strangest sensation he had ever felt in his life. It was as if somebody had lifted him up and out of his body, however something like that was possible, and left him to float on a bed of clouds in the utter bliss of irresponsibility. He didn't need to do anything. Wasn't that nice?

"Come with me," he heard vaguely, though it was impossible to tell whether the command had come from outside or inside of his head. After a few moments he noticed that he seemed to be moving—his legs were walking forward by themselves! What an excellent… and strange… and completely illogical phenomenon.

Harry tried to shake his head to clear it, but the motion felt completely wrong. It was as if there were a period of long latency between his desire and the response of his body. He saw the corridor around him, and Lord Voldemort, and all the colours swirling together as if in a kaleidoscope, and it was difficult to concentrate on anything but the thought that he needed to look at Lord Voldemort and follow, because that was the only way he could return his perceptions to a semblance of normality.

_Don't look so dazed_. This time, Harry Potter was certain that the voice had not reached his ears, but had somehow seeped directly into his understanding. He also suddenly became cognizant of the fact that he had a face, after all, and it could make expressions, and that he had eyes that not only could be looked out of, but could also be looked at. And it wouldn't do to look too listless, would it?

No, that would not do at all. He tried to focus on his surroundings more, but they slipped away from his conscious grasp. It was infuriating.

A spark of something rose up inside him, and his head felt clear for one, blessed moment. It was infuriating. Infuriating. Harry shook his head again, and this time it seemed to listen to him better, as it ought to have before.

"Dobby!" he heard Lord Voldemort say. Dobby appeared, and Harry's eyes locked on to the elf. That was Dobby, yes.

Lord Voldemort turned to Harry. "Dobby will apparate you to Lily Potter's home, into my—your room. There you will change places with me."

The words echoed in his mind. Harry blinked, and then struggled to blink again. He tried to grit his teeth and felt his jaw slowly working, as if against some kind of strong spring that had been wedged into his mouth. But nobody had had time to install something like that in there.

Harry looked at Lord Voldemort again, really looked, and then he was perplexed again. What? He asked himself. No. He did not understand what was going on.

So he asked. "What do you mean?"

Lord Voldemort stared at him, and Harry thought that the expression on his face had to be one of surprise. Yes, yes it was.

"Blast," said Lord Voldemort. Then Harry felt the mist again, that tearing force that pulled his body away from him so he was floating again, high above everything and so indifferent. He wasn't even watching, was he? And then the feeling stopped entirely, and Harry crashed rudely back to reality.

"Bloody, buggering hell," he muttered, rubbing at his head. He felt horrible, like someone had repeatedly taken a rubber mallet to his skull with too much enthusiasm.

"I removed the curse," Lord Voldemort said exasperatedly above him, "before you did something imbecilic."

Harry groaned. "_That_ was the imperius curse?" he demanded. The disorientation had been completely horrible, and he could barely remember what had gone on. Looking around, he noted that he was halfway down the corridor now, and that his transfigured hood had been put back up at some point.

"That," Lord Voldemort told him dryly, "was you attempting to resist the imperius curse. I need you to relax and cooperate. Trust me; it will be much simpler that way."

Harry shuddered, but felt a bit guilty anyway. Lord Voldemort was going to let him see his mum. Harry thought he ought to at least make an effort—or perhaps the idea was to not make any kind of effort.

"Right, sorry, my Lord. I'm ready now," he said. Lord Voldemort nodded and pointed his wand at Harry again.

The feeling of bliss filled him again, and this time, Harry did not panic. He waited, and just when he was about to grow impatient with being unable to properly feel his limbs, everything returned to its usual clarity and the strange sensation of the imperius curse retreated to the back of his mind to hover almost unobtrusively. He felt vaguely happy and free.

"It worked?" he asked uncertainly. Lord Voldemort looked him over and at last nodded.

"Close enough. There's no time. Go with Dobby now, and make sure to _act like me_." The last words echoed in Harry's head.

Harry turned to Dobby and the elf held out a hand. "Sir Dark Lord is not hurting Harry Potter?"

"I'm fine, Dobby," Harry said, smiling slightly. He really did feel fine now. A bit too uplifted, perhaps. The experience made him itch to know how exactly the imperius curse worked, but that would have to wait for later. Unbidden, the reminder of Kolya's insistence that he and Alvin join the Dark Arts class in their third year came to him. Harry had not seriously considered it before, only making vague agreements to appease his friend, but perhaps it would not be a bad idea after all. Just because he took Dark Arts did not mean he ever had to use the actual spells outside of class.

With a light squeeze around his body, Dobby apparated them away and into a bedroom, before popping away. The room was plain and very sparsely furnished. The only evidence that anyone lived in the room was the presence of a standard school trunk, open, revealing perfectly compartmentalised and stacked contents. And then of course, there was the boy sleeping in the bed.

It was Lord Voldemort. Or rather, it was Harry Potter. But it was obviously not Harry. The question was, however, who it could possibly be then, because Lord Voldemort was back in the cottage, and that had to be the real Lord Voldemort, because he was wearing the face that, as far as Harry knew, everybody thought was dead and nobody had seen in over a decade.

There was a quiet prickling between his eyes, and Harry felt his body stand there, relaxed, without any willing of his own. He didn't need to worry about it, after all.

_Stay still, _came the clear order, curiously a moment later than Harry's body had moved to obey it. Harry tried to say something back, but it was difficult to even think clearly. Why did he need to think?

_Let me tell you what to do. Trust me. That is also me._

Harry, unable to quell his curiosity, thought that it would be better to do as he was told. Slowly, he felt his awareness returning to his body. And then he walked forward.

It was wholly an odd and somewhat uncomfortable feeling. He felt as if he were in control, but the split-second lag between his movements and his mind told him that all he was doing was pretending that he wanted to do what he was doing. He didn't even know what exactly he was doing, after all.

His emotions told him merely that it was how he ought to and wanted to act. But intellectually, Harry knew that it was the imperius curse. Harry knew that he was under the imperius curse.

How insidious could this magic be, then, when applied to an unknowing victim? An imperius curse could be cast while one slept, and then one could very wake an entirely new person. Harry wanted to shiver, but his body did not reflect his desires. It frightened him for a moment, and it was, strangely enough, all he could do not to resist.

Lord Voldemort knew what he was doing, at least much more than Harry did right now. It would be stupid to attempt to throw off the curse now and cause problems.

Harry, in accordance with the feelings he received, no longer even worded orders, continued forward until he stood over the peacefully sleeping form of himself in the bed. He then gently shook the person who might or might not be Lord Voldemort awake.

To his surprise, his lookalike's eyes snapped open and immediately focused on him. Harry was amazed, because he knew that if somebody had woken him up like that, he would have been groggy and confused for at least a minute afterwards.

"Myself. I come with tidings from the future," Harry said, though he had no idea what the words meant. A dark red wand swept into the hand of the Lord Voldemort on the bed with incredible speed and was pointed at his throat. Harry felt panic seize him, but his body remained calm, and continued to speak. "As per the letter from Augustus Rookwood."

Lord Voldemort's eyes narrowed considerably, but then he nodded, and Harry relaxed, to match the state of his body as the wand was lowered.

"So, where did I find him?" Lord Voldemort asked. Harry was now glad that he was under the imperius curse, because he had no idea what Lord Voldemort was talking about.

Apparently Lord Voldemort, the one on his end who had put him under the curse, did know, because Harry opened his mouth and answered, "Charing Cross Road."

"Daring," replied the other Lord Voldemort, who had by now stood up and was removing his pyjamas. Harry stared at him until Lord Voldemort dumped the pyjamas in his arms, whereupon he realized that he could move easily of his own volition again.

_Change into the pyjamas and return to the bed, _ordered the voice of Lord Voldemort in Harry's head. This time, he barely felt the detached sensation or an enforced desire to comply, but he did so anyway, moving to unclasp his transfigured cloak. Then his fingers froze, and he slowly moved his hand down.

_Stop, stop!_ The order came belatedly, but as before, Harry had moved to obey it before it had been voiced. Instead, he watched as the Lord Voldemort in the room brandished his wand at his trunk, whereupon about a yard of white cloth flew out and unfolded itself. Several more flicks and he had himself a set of black robes, which he quickly donned. Another swish of his wand and a wooden dowel leapt into his hand. A transfiguration later he was holding a stubby but clearly sharp knife, which he slipped into his robe pocket. Then he opened up the window and jumped out, arms outstretched and careening through the air like a great, lopsided bird.

Harry broke off from his staring and went back to removing his clothes. As soon as the cloak was off of his shoulders, he realized why he had been hastily stopped from continuing in front of the other Lord Voldemort. Harry wasn't stupid; he was fairly certain that the point had been for him to pretend to be Lord Voldemort himself.

And Lord Voldemort, pretending to be Harry, would certainly not have been wearing Durmstrang robes underneath his cloak. Relieved that his Lord Voldemort (for lack of a better term) had thought of that detail in time, Harry stuffed his clothes under the bed before he changed into the unfamiliar pyjamas and burrowed under unfamiliar covers.

This mission, Harry reflected, was extremely odd. Harry had never been on missions before, but he was certain that most of them did not involve delivering spontaneous messages to other versions of Lord Voldemort. Why exactly there were two Lord Voldemorts was really the biggest question, but Harry was quite tired and couldn't be bothered to think of an explanation.

_Go to sleep_, came the order. Harry yawned and closed his eyes. He supposed it was as good an idea as any.

When he awoke, it was to a chilly draft and the glare of daylight against white walls. Harry retained enough presence of mind to remember that he was in Lily Potter's house right now, having replaced Lord Voldemort a little after midnight.

Lily Potter's house. Harry sat up in bed, eyes wide open. His mum was in the house.

"Easy there, Harry. It's not Christmas yet," remarked a voice cheerfully from the door. Harry's head snapped over, and only the stiff, floating feeling that flooded through his limbs at that moment prevented him from gaping or bursting into tears at the sight.

His mother stood, leaning against the doorjamb, peering into the room with a smile. The fluffy, fiery red hair that framed her face and the crinkled green eyes that watched him with love were exactly as he had always imagined, and yet more. She was a real person. His mum was real.

Instead of expressing the well of emotions that wanted to spill over, Harry said, "Morning, mum."

"Sleep well?" asked his mother. Harry nodded. He had likely been too tired to care where he was, and the bed did not feel remarkably different from his bed at the cottage or at Durmstrang. Pushing the covers aside, Harry swung his legs over the edge and leg his bare feet dangle against the prickly carpet. Then he stood and, on impulse, walked over to his mum and gave her an awkward, uncertain hug.

Hugging his mum was different from hugging Dobby. For one, she was taller than him, and her hair fell into his face when she leaned forward. Also, where Dobby smelled like a combination of soot and cabbage, his mother smelled pleasant in a way he could not liken to other things.

At the same time, though, Harry comprehended at that moment that he did not know his mother. He knew that she was called Lily Potter and he knew what she looked like, and that she was probably a nice person. But besides the wistful but ephemeral attachment he felt to the idea of a mother, he did not feel more than a sense of wondering appreciation for the woman who stood before him and held him in her arms.

The realization was cold. Harry knew now that it was too late. He was already growing up, and he had spent so long without a mother, longing for a mother, that now when she was there, he did not know what to do with her. They were strangers, and too strange to each other to bridge the gap now, especially when he knew that their contact would not last. Harry was only here because nobody else could pretend to be him while Lord Voldemort was busy. Soon, everything would be back to the way it was before.

Lily Potter would be living with a replica of her son again, and she wouldn't know the difference. And Harry Potter would be back to acting the orphan. Because even though she wasn't dead, Harry would still not have a mother.

And who was at fault for everything? Was there even one person, or was it everything? Fate? For the first time in his life, Harry really began to wonder about the past. He had always been more concerned with the present and the future. What would he do now? What later? The past had seemed trivial, because it was all already behind him. There was nothing he could do about it.

But knowing about it; that was important. Harry had thought before that he knew everything he needed to about his own past. Lord Voldemort had fought against the supporters of the status quo. He had let himself be labelled as a dark lord, a villain, even as he worked to improve the lives of wizards everywhere, by separating their world permanently from the muggle world. Muggles did not understand magic, and every moment wizards attempted to live in their midst, the risk of being discovered grew greater. Nobody knew what would happen, but it would be uneventful at best and catastrophic at worst. The best course of action was to protect the magical world from that eventuality entirely, and to purge the muggle taint from the wizarding community.

James and Lily Potter had been supporters of Albus Dumbledore, whose efforts had been in Lord Voldemort's way. Lord Voldemort was not merciful to his enemies, and so he had moved to attack them. But he was also a good lord to his vassals. And when one of his vassals had requested that he spare Lily Potter's life, Lord Voldemort had agreed, despite that she was as much his enemy as James Potter.

And when Lily Potter had been put into the St. Mungo's ward for permanent spell damage after an _obliviate_ gone wrong, Lord Voldemort had taken her son in to raise him. Harry could only suppose that Lord Voldemort had not wanted Harry growing up to oppose his movement.

What Harry found suspicious was the fact that he was the only child who had ever been so spared. He appreciated that Lord Voldemort had not seen fit to kill him as well, but he could not fathom the reason why.

Lord Voldemort could go on all he wanted about the sanctity of magical blood and the need to preserve the community, but Harry knew that there had been other people attacked, other people with children, and none of them had been spared. Certainly, none of them had been raised in Lord Voldemort's own home.

Harry had not much cared for the answer to this conundrum before. He had assumed it would be something trivial; perhaps Lord Voldemort had simply taken a fancy to him. Perhaps Harry had performed some feat of accidental magic that led Lord Voldemort to believe he would be a powerful wizard when he grew up. Whatever it was, it hadn't seemed important.

But now Harry wondered. If Lord Voldemort had spared Lily Potter, why hadn't he kidnapped her as well? Perhaps he had thought that she would never be persuaded to change her ideals, or that she might escape. But then, why agree to spare her in the first place? Lord Voldemort had the power to refuse his followers' requests, Harry knew. He had taken the same oath of fealty as anybody else, and nowhere did it stipulate that the lord had to do anything more than consider the wishes of his vassals while he protected them.

If anything, it was whoever had asked Lord Voldemort to spare Lily's life who had been in the wrong. That person had sworn to treat as his own enemies the enemies of Lord Voldemort, and had violated his oath. The only way he could have got away with that was if he had done something of a truly tremendous value to Lord Voldemort.

What this task could have been was a complete mystery to Harry. Really, it might have been anything. Harry could not even begin to form a theory on how that Death Eater had got Lord Voldemort to go as far as to reward him for doing something. Vassals were supposed to serve loyally and obey orders. They were punished if they didn't, and there was no talk of giving them extra benefits for simply fulfilling their oath, other than the ones they already derived from their lord's promise.

As he was led into the kitchen by Lily Potter and subsequently was allowed to watch muggle technology first hand when a strange machine sucked two pieces of bread inside itself and then spat out perfectly-made toast a minute later, Harry managed to think his mind into a twisted knot before he gave up and spread some marmalade on his toast, taking an annoyed bite and spraying crumbs everywhere. The upshot of it all was that Harry really didn't know anything about why the things in his life had happened the way they had. There just seemed to be something wrong with the entire picture, something that remained infuriatingly out of reach.

Ever-present along with everything else was the reason why Lord Voldemort had to masquerade as him, why Lord Voldemort got to spend time with Lily Potter, something that he certainly did not find enjoyable, while Harry, alive and well, had nonetheless to pretend that he was someone else, some nameless half-blood attending the Durmstrang Institute of Magic. Because Harry Potter, just a boy, couldn't be trusted to act before Albus Dumbledore, one of greatest warlocks, if not the greatest, of the century.

But why would Albus Dumbledore be interested in Harry Potter, just a boy? It made absolutely no sense to Harry, and it never had, no matter how Lord Voldemort had tried to explain it away. Perhaps Lord Voldemort was wrong, too; perhaps Albus Dumbledore did not even know who he was. Nonetheless, there remained the fact that Lord Voldemort believed that Dumbledore should have some interest in Harry.

At that moment, as Harry finished devouring his first piece of toast, another woman walked in, and the tingling, floating feeling of the imperius curse at the back of Harry's mind reared up again to stop him from doing anything foolish.

_That's Arabella Figg, a squib who lives with your mother,_ Lord Voldemort's voice supplied. _This is her house._ Harry froze in on himself, wondering if the imperius curse allowed Lord Voldemort to listen in on his thoughts in addition to looking through his eyes. Nobody had ever prohibited Harry from speculating or wondering about things, but he still did not want Lord Voldemort to know that Harry was so curious. Every time he thought of it Harry was still reminded that, despite everything, Lord Voldemort had taken him in, given him protection, and given him an education. Harry should be—and he was—grateful for all that he had rather than annoyed about what may or may not have happened to lead up to it, and what might have been had some or other choice perhaps been made differently.

Still, Lord Voldemort had not reacted at all to Harry's contemplation, so it was likely that his thoughts were safe unless he tried to say something specifically to Lord Voldemort. Relaxing slightly, Harry looked back to the woman in the door.

Arabella Figg wore tartan and big, fluffy slippers with little cat ears sewn on them. As she entered the kitchen, four cats of varying colours and patterns slunk in behind her. Immediately, the white cat hurtled towards him, eliciting surprised calls of, "Snowy!" from Mrs. Figg and Harry's mum.

Harry rocked backwards in his chair as the cat jumped onto his lap, claws extended and planted securely in his pyjama tops, which he realized vaguely he had forgotten to change out of.

"Snowy, what's got into you?" Mrs. Figg asked, shuffling towards Harry and the angered cat. "Harry's not a stranger. He was here in summer, remember?"

In response, Snowy puffed up her fur and turned to glare at Mrs. Figg, who paled and began shaking her head.

"You must be mistaken," she said, nervously. Harry got the idea, then, that Mrs. Figg must be able to understand her cats.

_Er, my Lord? Can I get some help here?_ Harry thought furiously, but nothing happened. The relaxing, pleasing feeling of having utterly no responsibilities had retreated into the corner of his mind, and no amount of panicking seemed able to draw it out.

"What's going on?" Harry's mother demanded. Mrs. Figg shook her head helplessly.

"Snowy seems to think that Harry here is someone we don't know," she said. At this point, the other three cats had also congregated around Harry's chair. Mrs. Figg fidgeted. "Mr. Paws thinks so too."

Lily narrowed her eyes and pulled out her wand, and Harry flinched. "I swear I'm your son!" he said. This had the added benefit of being true.

Her eye softened, but her wand remained pointed at him, "I'm sorry, but we have to make sure. _Finite Incantatem._"

Harry braced himself, waiting for the transfiguration on his hair to wear off and reveal his, ironically, dyed hair colour, but nothing happened. Then he reminded himself, feeling stupid, that transfiguration was not an ongoing spell. The magic for a transfiguration was put in all at once to cause the change, and the spell began wearing off when most of the magic dissipated. As far as the general counter spell was concerned, a transfiguration changed something's properties and could not be "cancelled."

Reversing a human transfiguration without knowing what the person originally looked like could be quite dangerous, so Harry was safe there. No doubt his mum had been checking for glamour charms.

"It could be polyjuice, though," she murmured. Harry had no idea what polyjuice was, but he figured it was some other kind of appearance-changing magic. He wondered briefly if it was what Lord Voldemort used in order to look like him.

"But why would anyone want to impersonate your son?" Mrs. Figg asked. Harry's mother frowned.

"I don't know," she finally said. Then she turned to Harry, a conflicted expression in her eyes. "Harry, if that's really you, I'm sorry for—for believing a pair of cats over you… but we need to know. Just in case."

"That's okay," Harry offered. If he had been a normal boy with a normal mother, he imagined he would have been indignant at the lack of trust. But given that he really wasn't Lord Voldemort, and similarly Lord Voldemort was not him, Lily Potter was right in a lot of ways, and he would feel bad for throwing a tantrum. Harry wasn't exactly certain how to, anyway. Lord Voldemort usually quelled them before they ever started with a few well-placed hexes.

"How long does polyjuice last?" Mrs. Figg asked.

"It depends," replied Harry's mother still frowning, "but it could last as long as twelve hours if the brewer is skilled enough and the ingredients sufficiently refined."

That explained what polyjuice was. Harry deduced that it was a potion that let someone look like somebody else. It probably didn't have an antidote, or the antidote was difficult to get one's hands on, given the way everyone was waffling about.

"You know," Harry brought up uncomfortably, "the only thing that's keeping me sitting here is a cat. I swear I'm Harry. Uh, sorry if I smell different or something." By then, he had deduced that the cat had found something off about him due to his scent.

Said cat's tail suddenly flicked upwards as she deflated and looked up, sniffing at him curiously. Finally, she turned to Mrs. Figg and said, "Meow." The black cat by his foot made a similar sound.

"Well, Tufty and Snowy say that he's telling the truth," Mrs. Figg said. "I really do not know what's got into them today. I'm so sorry, Harry."

Harry's mum took a last look at the cats and then turned back to Harry. She put her wand away and stood up, coming around the table to hug him. Harry returned the gesture awkwardly. "Oh Harry, I'm really sorry. I just—the last war. So many people died because of polyjuice or imperius—"

Both of them froze. Harry's mother pulled back to look him in the eye, and he stared back at her, trying to seem innocent. He didn't even know if he was still under the imperius curse, because he couldn't feel it anymore. Would she have a way of noticing it anyway, though? Harry had been under the impression that part of the reason it was an Unforgivable was because it was practically impossible to detect and reverse.

But his mum shook her head. "No, no. I'm being too paranoid. There's no way—no reason," she said firmly. "Sorry, Harry," she added ruefully, shaking her head. "Maybe I'm not fit to be a mother after all."

"No, no, I mean, yes, you are fit," Harry blurted, even though a moment later, the thought flashed across his mind that perhaps she was right. A real mother wouldn't suspect her son of being an imposter, would she? But that thought too was quickly thrown out. A real mother would have got both herself and her son killed by being too trusting. Lily Potter had the right instincts.

"It's all right," Harry told her. "Really. I, er, when I was with muggles, people would sometimes pretend to be my friends so they could hurt me," he said, and regretted speaking a moment later, for he had completely made that up on the spot, knowing the basic false history Lord Voldemort had given to Harry Potter. Harry didn't know much about muggles. Did muggles have that kind of appearance-changing power?

"Oh, Harry, that's terrible," said his mum, and Harry decided that he hadn't blundered too much. "I'd never do that to you, understand, Harry?" she said, and Harry was surprised for a moment before he realized that she had misinterpreted his words, though perhaps fortunately, as this revelation led Harry to decide that muggles probably weren't able to impersonate other people as well as wizards could, after all.

"Er, I know that," he replied. "You were just being careful." His mum hugged him again, and again, it was unexpected and a little overwhelming.

Awkwardly, he turned to sit back down. "So, er, I should really finish my toast," he said lamely, picking up the now-cold bread and taking a bite. The toast still tasted all right. His mum stared at him for a moment before she shook her head and smiled.

For the rest of breakfast, wherein his mum insisted that he have a glass of milk and yet another slice of toast, they pretended that nothing had happened, which was just fine with Harry. Even the cats let him pet them. As far as he was concerned, he had at least survived the operation without compromising anything. Also, the feeling of the imperius curse had not come back at all, and Harry deduced that it had probably worn off during his panic.

He felt somewhat scared now that he was in "enemy" territory without any kind of guidance, but at the same time he was glad to be rid of the stupid curse. The way it made him feel was rather violating, and it was creepy to find his body obeying orders his mind had yet to catch up with. All Lord Voldemort had told him to do was act like a child; it couldn't be too difficult—he _was_ a child, and furthermore he was Harry Potter. Unless Lord Voldemort had completely failed to gauge his personality even after all their sessions during the summer, Harry did not think he would incur any more suspicion. The cat problem had been an unforeseen circumstance, and he had got past it all right.

After breakfast, his mum had to mark essays. Apparently, she worked as an English teacher at a nearby state secondary school called Stonewall High. Harry thought that the name sounded rather grim, but his mum assured him that it was a decent place, and offered to introduce him to some of her students. Harry had quickly declined, citing the excuse that it might be rather awkward because he couldn't tell them about magic. She had then suggested that he start on some of his winter assignments so that he wouldn't have to think about them over Christmas.

Harry would have agreed that this was a good idea if he had had his own winter assignments in hand, and not those of Lord Voldemort. He certainly did not want to do his lord's homework for him, and he doubted that Lord Voldemort would appreciate the quality of it either, if he did. Instead, Harry brought out a scroll of parchment and attempted to recall what he had been assigned for Magical Theory, which was the class he found most enjoyable.

It was also the class he did not have a textbook for, which meant that he was eager to get the homework out of the way as soon as possible before he forgot everything he had learned the previous term. He was beginning to regret his random bout of laziness and frugality, though he certainly wasn't going to purchase a text now, seeing as they would be getting a new one next term anyway.

Then Harry palmed his face. "Dobby!" he called, though he made sure to keep his voice to a whisper. A moment later, Dobby appeared with a quiet pop of displaced air.

"What is," Harry shushed him, and the elf lowered his voice, "Harry be needing?"

"Could you get my winter assignment list please? It's in my trunk somewhere. Probably with the textbooks," Harry said. Dobby nodded.

"Right away!" agreed the elf. He disappeared and, a minute later, reappeared with the requested parchment in hand.

"Thanks Dobby, you're a life-saver. Uh, by the way, how is our Lord doing?" Harry remembered to ask.

"Dark Lord is saying nasty things about Harry, but is telling Dobby to tell Harry that Harry is to continue himself," Dobby replied.

By "continue himself," Harry figured that Dobby meant that Lord Voldemort meant for Harry to carry on as planned, which Harry supposed was the only logical option anyway, if Lord Voldemort was still busy with whatever it was he was up to.

"Er, right. Thanks again, Dobby," said Harry. Dobby nodded vigorously and wished him good luck, holding up his fingers to snap. Harry suddenly remembered something, and called in a harsh whisper, "Wait!"

Dobby waited. "Yes, Harry?" Harry bent down and rummaged under the bed until he managed to pull up his rumpled Durmstrang uniform.

"Can you take this back home?" he asked. Dobby nodded and accepted the pile.

"Dobby is doing so!" Then the elf snapped his fingers and disappeared with the items.

It was with an annoyed sigh that Harry turned to his winter assignment list. None of the teachers had given out large amounts of homework, with the exception of the ever-dour Professor Dolohov, but added all together he had a good stack of work.

"One standard scroll comparing jinxes and curses," Harry read his Magical Theory homework aloud. He already knew what Professor Waffling wanted from the assignment, thankfully; teachers were easy to predict sometimes. If this were a Defence essay, he definitely would focus on the differences between the effects of the spells. But in Magical Theory, the method required to cast spells was the most important thing.

Jinxes and curses were classified based on how harmful they were in general, but the preferred casting method depended on whether the spell was dark magic. Most curses were dark, while many jinxes were not, though it was not completely clear-cut. He would need to think of an example of a curse that was not considered dark magic, and probably also a jinx that was, just to balance things out.

Digging a quill out of Lord Voldemort's desk, Harry discovered that it was self-inking like the one Harry used to take notes in class. His eyes searched around for some bit of scrap parchment, but the desk was pristine, and finally he decided to use the back of his assignment sheet.

"Conjunctivitis curse," he noted down. He had learned about it from Kolya, who had watched Sergey Savchenko use it on another boy. Harry remembered that Kolya had called Savchenko a "lucky bastard" for not even earning a detention. Since it wasn't dark magic, it wasn't picked up by the dark detectors in the halls, and, as nobody reported him, Savchenko had got away completely with cursing the other student.

The conjunctivitis curse was called a curse because it caused harm and wasn't really possible to use for a reason other than causing harm, seeing as it hurt the eyes of living things. And it wasn't dark magic because it didn't destroy anything and wasn't intended to destroy anything.

With a sigh, Harry pressed the nub of his quill to the parchment he'd decided to use and pondered how he ought to begin his essay, mind wandering. It felt surreal, doing something as ordinary and boring as school work while his mother, whom he had only just met that morning, sat in her own study just a few rooms away. Knowing that he would soon be far away from her and might never meet her again caused a light pang in his chest.

* * *

A/N: Well, a thanks to the people who read and reviewed. As you've probably figured out, I am delving into the difficult and dubious realm of time travel, though only of the canon-approved sort involving normal Time Turners. Wish me luck; I know I'm going to screw up somewhere.


	14. A Doppelgänger Adventure: Part II

Exiting King's Cross to feel the chill of winter wind buffeting him was an entirely novel experience for Lord Voldemort, just as getting off the Hogwarts Express to be greeted by somebody who cared for him was. Even in his seventh year as Tom Riddle, when he had acquainted himself with nearly every pureblood scion in the school and had standing invitations into their homes, his Christmas holidays had been spent holed up in the library at Hogwarts.

Lord Voldemort had at first thought it odd that wizards celebrated Christmas, even as they continued to resent muggles for burning witches hundreds of years ago. In his youth, it had been Christianity that had told him not to suffer a witch to live, after all. But he quickly realized that, to wizards and witches, as to an ever-increasing part of the muggle population, Christmas had little more meaning than its material reality; it was a day of celebration on which people could exchange gifts and a moneymaking opportunity for shopkeepers. Lord Voldemort doubted that, if asked, many wizards could even explain where the name "Christmas" had come from.

The idea of giving gifts was a quaint one, but in practice it was usually an annoying hassle. Having successfully managed to make friends with all of his Slytherin year-mates and about half of Ravenclaw, Lord Voldemort had had to put in the effort of getting them all gifts. Because he had been a penniless orphan in his youth, he had always crafted his gifts by hand using magical tricks. These gifts had never failed to impress—he had quickly learned that hand-made items, even if judged inferior in quality to purchased ones, always seemed more "thoughtful" to their recipients.

With that in mind, Lord Voldemort had made enchanted ornaments for all of his "friends," varying in complexity depending on how "close" they were to him. At his skill level, it had been easy to cast enchantments that might have been believably first year level.

Most of the gifts had been self-powering jars with simple animated objects inside them, for example a flower that might bloom and wither and then bloom again. Lord Voldemort had made certain to ask Professor Flitwick about power-storing enchantments and had had the professor cast one on all of his jars so that he would have an excuse for including such advanced magic in his gifts. There was no need to appear suspicious for something as inconsequential as Christmas presents.

Lord Voldemort remembered belatedly that he had not made a gift for Lily or Arabella yet. It was no matter; he could conjure and enchant something while at home, if necessary, although it seemed at the moment that he would not be returning to Arabella's house quite yet.

"Are we going somewhere?" he asked Lily as she led him down the street. At first, he had expected to apparate home. Then, they had walked out of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, and he had expected to take another train. Finally, Lily had taken him outside to walk around in the frigid air, and he had no idea what to expect now.

"I thought we'd grab a bite to eat for dinner," she explained. "The Express hardly serves anything fit to call lunch."

"That's true," Lord Voldemort agreed, "Dinner sounds fine." The trolley of sweets might be a nice indulgence for young wizards and witches, but it was rather annoying that the train, which ran for six hours and straight through lunch time, did not sport a dining car.

They had dinner in a muggle restaurant and then stopped by a delicatessen in a department store to buy some expensive food items as a treat. Lord Voldemort found the experience of living with Lily Potter surprisingly pleasant, owing to her kindness and generosity, and he could see why Severus had taken a liking to her. Strangely, he could see some of her qualities in her son, Harry, which was ridiculous, as they had never even met.

When he and Lily returned to the house on Wisteria Walk, it was late evening, and Arabella had already retired. Lily confessed that the woman had been complaining of a headache all day. Lord Voldemort feigned exhaustion and hurried up to his room, in time to see a very familiar owl arrive at his window.

It was his own, and it was carrying a letter in its talons. How peculiar.

Lord Voldemort cast several cautious detection spells through the glass, but the owl was not deterred and only pecked several more times at it. Relenting, Voldemort opened the window and gingerly took the letter after casting another spell to detect dark magic and ascertaining that he did not feel any kind of irrational foreboding or pressure, the signal that a large amount of active magic was concentrated in the area.

Harry certainly couldn't be sending him a letter. For one, at this time, Harry could not possibly have returned yet. The Durmstrang ship set sail after dinner and took five hours to reach the shore where the designated portkeys had been set to leave off. There was a one hour time difference between Durmstrang and Lord Voldemort's current location in Little Whinging. That meant it would be at least an hour before Harry reached the cottage.

Also, the letter was sealed with the Dark Mark. Apart from being ominous, it was also the seal he put on his personal correspondence. Frowning, Lord Voldemort pried the wax off and opened the envelope, dumping the contents on his desk. It was one sheet of parchment, folded thrice.

Hesitantly, he unfolded the page and set a pair of paperweights on opposite corners. His eyes immediately caught on the familiar, wide and loopy script and the signature, not a name but a little picture. It was a rook, a chess piece, topped off by a misshapen ink blob with a trailing line that Lord Voldemort knew was supposed to represent a large, black bird, despite the artist's lack of talent.

He had a letter from Augustus Rookwood—his old spy in the Unspeakables, August Rookwood, who, Lord Voldemort was almost entirely certain, was rotting away in the depths of Azkaban.

He would have dismissed it outright as false if all of the evidence hadn't been pointing to some kind of ridiculous plot. Carefully, Lord Voldemort looked back to his personal mail owl and then at the broken Dark Mark and finally to the handwriting and the signature.

It was feasible that somebody had figured out how he sealed his letters—Lord Voldemort wouldn't exactly call it subtle. Forging a Dark Mark was easy; the shape was probably imprinted in everybody's minds, and Voldemort had never put a magical component into his seal that would help him verify its authenticity. Perhaps he ought to do that at the next opportunity.

Forging Augustus Rookwood's handwriting would also not have been difficult. All one needed was a sample of writing, and as Rookwood had gone to Hogwarts and had completed loads of pointless essays, it wasn't impossible that someone close to him could have got his hands on several. The unique signature was meant to be a secret, but anyone could have intercepted Rookwood's letters at some point during the war.

Stealing Lord Voldemort's owl was a bit of a stretch. Certainly, capturing the owl would not have been difficult while it was on a hunt, but how could anybody conceivably realize that it was Lord Voldemort's owl? Lord Voldemort had never told anybody its name—he didn't even know what it was supposed to be, but it had come with one at some point—and it looked just like any other common tawny owl. The only reason Lord Voldemort even recognized it was that he was its owner, which meant that he and the owl had had matching recognition charms placed on them at purchase. Nobody else should have been able to tell it apart from another owl.

And finally, there was the content of the letter.

"To the Dark Lord:

"The critical tool that aided my escape currently hangs from the neck of my former colleague, a man named Broderick Bode. Some time later, he will find himself bereft of everything he has and ever will have.

"As I write this letter, you are watching me, but you pay no mind to what I have written, for you know that it will suffice. You have already Seen it.

"Your Faithful Servant."

Clearly, if the letter was to be believed, Augustus Rookwood had escaped from Azkaban, using some item that was currently in the possession of an Unspeakable. Did that mean that Rookwood had foisted some piece of evidence onto a man he was planning to kill later, as had been detailed in the note?

But that did not make any sense. The entire letter was nonsensical, in fact. Lord Voldemort would have dismissed it for the ravings of a madman, had this cryptic form not been Rookwood's customary style. Any sufficiently clever person with time on his hands could easily figure out a letter's meaning, but Rookwood liked to keep it difficult for potential interceptors while the unfriendly potions he often soaked his parchments in did their work.

At that thought, Lord Voldemort brought out his wand and cast several more detection spells, but the letter came up clean.

He returned to the puzzle. Focusing on the second paragraph, he noted that Rookwood addressed him as if he were present at the drafting of the letter. The "S" in "Seen" was capitalized, as if to indicate the presence of some sort of Inner Eye or other divinatory power. Perhaps Rookwood referred to scrying?

But that was not possible, Lord Voldemort reminded himself. Rookwood must have written this letter some time ago for it to have reached his hands now. He certainly had not performed any kind of divination involving Rookwood lately, and Lord Voldemort did not have the natural power of the Sight. Scrying into the past was probably not relevant either, as Voldemort could see no reason why he would do such a thing. Anything Rookwood was doing at that moment could have simply gone in the letter, in lieu of a request for retroactive divination. Even an attached memory would have sufficed.

So Rookwood was implying that Voldemort would see him write the letter in the future; but that also seemed impossible. Lord Voldemort's eyes darted back to the first sentence—"hangs from the neck." It suddenly became obvious.

Lord Voldemort would, in short order, somehow get his hands on a Time Turner. Actually, the "somehow" was clear, as well. He would murder an Unspeakable named Broderick Bode and take the device from around his neck. All Senior Unspeakables were issued one.

How, exactly, he was supposed to find Broderick Bode was as of yet unclear. He had never heard of the man before, which was no surprise, as the identities of Unspeakables were usually kept secret from the general public because they researched sensitive topics. He could attempt to scry, but with the name given Lord Voldemort strongly suspected that there would be a middle name involved, one which he did not know of.

Unable to think of a suitable method, Lord Voldemort gave it up as a bad job and decided to go to bed. After all, if a Time Turner was involved, some intervention would eventually show up to make certain that the events he had already perceived ended up happening.

Several hours later, Lord Voldemort's eyes snapped open and he immediately recovered from his occluded stupor, having never actually fallen asleep. The first thing he saw was his own face, or rather, Harry Potter's face.

Logically, he assumed that his future self had come to tell him what to do. Still, it paid to be paranoid, and he knew that his future self (himself, after all) would understand, which was why his holly wand was now pointed at his other self's throat.

In short order, it was confirmed that the new arrival was his future self, and that he had not misinterpreted Rookwood's letter, unless the entire setup had been some kind of elaborate trap. How that was possible, given the level of knowledge that would have been required to set it up, was beyond him, and so Lord Voldemort chose to believe instead that the Time Turner business was the truth.

Broderick Bode would apparently be found at Charing Cross Road. What somebody would be doing there in the dead of night was questionable. Looking to get wasted at the Leaky Cauldron, perhaps, but most wizards would have taken the floo, especially as Bode was a Ministry worker and had free access to the public fireplaces in the atrium.

Lord Voldemort transfigured his usual transfiguration bases into appropriate clothing and equipment and flew out of the window. He had already settled on a knife; it was important that nobody identified who had killed the man once it was done by picking up wayward traces. Dark magic like the killing curse lingered, even if one got rid of the body.

Landing softly on a nearby roof, he ascertained that he was outside of the wards on Arabella's house and made to apparate. Then he remembered his appearance and quickly transfigured his hair so that it was shorter and a ginger colour before applying a small glamour to his eyes to darken them and pulling up his hood. He disapparated away silently.

This late at night, there was nobody at Diagon Alley's apparition point. Stepping away from the circle that had been cut into the ground to designate the opening in the wards, Lord Voldemort made his way briskly out of the shadow of Gringotts and into the moonlit alley. Just outside the Leaky Cauldron he encountered a pair of drunkards sprawled on the filthy cobblestones, but otherwise his passage was unremarked.

Inside, the air was clouded with noxious smoke from the ends of a dozen pipes and the late-night patrons were crowded around the bar, where a smiling blond witch served alcohol. At the corner table, a pair of wrinkled hags and a pallid man who was probably a vampire huddled intently over a newspaper. Beside them a tired wizard looked to be eating a late dinner.

Lord Voldemort made his way unobtrusively across the pub and slipped out into muggle London. He felt a mild sense of uninvited relief as he slipped out of the heavy wards that layered the entrance. A wave of his wand later and he was disillusioned, essentially invisible in dimness of night.

After at least five minutes had gone by, during which he had only seen muggle cars and no people, Lord Voldemort was wondering whether he ought to have asked his future self for a time estimate. Just as he began to have doubts, he heard the door to the Leaky Cauldron open and whirled around to see a wizard, the same one Voldemort had noticed before, exit the pub, looking around nervously. The man pulled out his wand and waved it. Suddenly, his eyes widened and he looked in Lord Voldemort's direction.

Wasting no time now that the man had probably cast _homenum revelio_, Lord Voldemort hit him in the forehead with a basic stunner before he could react. Unspeakable robes often had protective charms on them in case of explosive experimental accidents, but as the man's hood was down, his head made for a clear target. Of course, Lord Voldemort was uncertain yet whether this was Broderick Bode or not, though it was likely. No other wizards had come into Charing Cross Road so far.

It was still a mystery why the wizard had not flood away or apparated from the Diagon Alley apparition point instead, but that did not particularly concern Lord Voldemort. He quickly disillusioned the unconscious wizard and levitated him down the street until he found a sufficiently spacious and unoccupied back alley in which he could conduct his work. It would be sloppy of him to be noticed, and, alas, there did not yet exist a repelling spell that could reliably keep out all wizards, due to the fact that most wizards could sense large concentrations of activated magic.

Cancelling the disillusionment on the unconscious man, Lord Voldemort used his wand to pull down the collar of the man's robes. A golden chain glinted from around the wizard's neck, and Lord Voldemort reached down gingerly to grasp it and pull it out. From the chain hung a delicate metal disk encircling a tiny hourglass full of fine sand. As he tried to remove the Time Turner from the Unspeakable's neck, it grew hot in his hands and compelled him to drop it.

Chiding himself mentally for not checking for jinxes, Lord Voldemort did so now, waving his wand at the chain and casting a general detection spell. He knew better than to try something like that with the Time Turner itself; the feedback would probably confound him. He learned that the ownership jinx he had just triggered was the only magic on the chain. It prevented thieves from removing items from the caster's person.

Unfortunately for the Unspeakable—Bode, Lord Voldemort supposed, if Rookwood's letter was to be trusted—the ownership jinx only worked for living humans. Removing the transfigured knife from his pocket, Lord Voldemort levitated it with his wand, aimed, and then slashed downwards, plunging the blade into Bode's throat before he ripped it out again and transfigured the entire affair into a clean wooden block, which he slipped back into his pocket.

Bode's eyes snapped open in uncomprehending shock, the effects of the stunner broken by pain, and his arms twitched weakly. Quietly, he gurgled, as blood spurted from the very messy and fatal wound. Lord Voldemort watched impatiently as Bode's mouth opened and closed, before the consciousness finally faded from his eyes, which ceased to look about and only gazed unseeingly up at the sky.

Raising his wand, Lord Voldemort pulled Bode into a sitting position with a spell usually reserved for animating marionettes. The head lolled grotesquely, half-severed. Grimacing, Voldemort reached down and grasped a clean portion of the Time Turner's chain and pulled it free from the body, which he allowed to crumple down again. The top half of the golden chain was red and sticky with blood. He wasted no time in casting _tergeo_, siphoning it off into the air, before he slipped the Time Turner around his own neck.

Lord Voldemort turned back to Bode and remembered to summon the man's wand to him. He checked for tracking charms and found none, so he slipped it into his other pocket. It might be of use later.

Wasting no more time, Lord Voldemort vanished Bode's body. Vanishing was a very tricky bit of a transfiguration, especially for large or magical objects, but was very effective for hiding bodies. Unlike ordinary transfiguration, completed vanishing could not be reversed.

Vanished objects became "nothing," that was, they returned to "everything." Perhaps the vanishing spell could be better described as a disintegration spell, in that it broke the target into the smallest particles until its identity disappeared, though all of this occurred in void-space so that, to the caster, it did seem as if the target had simply gone away. One could see this effect easily when vanishing living beings unsuccessfully; part of the creature might be stuck inside void space, while the rest of it would continue to move about.

Casting the human revealing spell in an imitation of the late Bode's previous actions, Lord Voldemort ascertained that there was no one nearby before he took the little hourglass in hand and, decisively, gave it twelve, swift turns, until it would turn no more, hoping that it was a standard twelve-hour Turner. Then he let go, and the world flashed around him, giving the impression of receding into the distance. He closed his eyes so as not to get dizzy.

When the movement about him stopped, he found himself standing at the gates of Hogwarts. Apparently, the Time Turner deposited a person near the place they had been at the desired time. It was an interesting fact to know. Tucking the pendant under his robes, Lord Voldemort walked a short distance down the path to Hogsmeade before he apparated away to somewhere in the North Sea.

This sort of location was a rather annoying description for one's apparition destination, but there was nothing for it, seeing as Azkaban Fortress was unplottable. It also had anti-disapparition and anti-apparition jinxes layered all over it in the form of apparition wards, which meant that Lord Voldemort had had to come out in a very awkward place, several kilometres from the fortress and hanging in midair.

He began to drop as soon as he materialized in the air, and had to very quickly pick himself back up by concentrating on keeping himself still in his surroundings. Unsupported flight had been an excellent invention of his. It required a bit too much willpower and imagination for the ordinary wizard, but for somebody of Lord Voldemort's calibre it did not occupy too much of his mental capacity.

Turning his head about slowly in the air, Lord Voldemort managed to spot the ugly gray smudge in the distance that was the main tower of Azkaban. Surveying the sea carefully, he began to move through the air, gaining speed as his confidence increased.

Lord Voldemort was going to break someone—presumably several someones, in fact—out of Azkaban. This would be an unprecedented sort of achievement, but Lord Voldemort did not fear. After all, Augustus Rookwood had sent him a letter from outside of Azkaban, which meant that he was already destined to succeed.

The idea of "destiny" made Lord Voldemort rather uncomfortable, but he knew that the existence of time loops and Time Turners did not mean that the future was set in stone. All it meant was that anything he perceived was bound to happen so that he perceived it the way he did—an utterly redundant point when it came to the present, but less so when the future was involved.

This matter of perception was why Lord Voldemort hated divination, and hated prophecies. Of course prophecies weren't nearly as powerful as Time Turners, but that was only because they usually did not specify precise times. If a prophecy turned out completely untrue, it could easily be dismissed as twaddle spouted by a drunken idiot, whereas the probability of future events as delivered by a Time Turner being a hoax was significantly smaller.

At any rate, all of this theory pointed to a high likelihood of Lord Voldemort succeeding in breaking Augustus Rookwood out of prison without any kind of plan.

By the time Lord Voldemort reached the edge of the chunk of jagged rock that called itself AzkabanIsland, he was soaked with sea foam and freezing. A quick barrage of drying and warming charms solved that problem, and he continued on, electing to walk the rest of the way to the grim stone construct that towered above him.

Periodically, he checked for wards he might have tripped, but so far he had only discovered spells that prevented all manner of magical transport, as well as a spell that detected people leaving the island, but nothing for anybody arriving. Lord Voldemort supposed that the Ministry thought that nobody in his right mind would willingly go here.

The Ministry was mostly right, Voldemort acknowledged. Azkaban was hardly a great place to take a holiday. Nonetheless, he was here now, and he was certain he would be able to bypass the measly exit alarm when it came time to do so.

There were four large holes cut up the front of the stone structure, but Lord Voldemort was not particularly worried about somebody spotting him, seeing as he was approaching from the side, and once he got close enough to get inside, he would be out of the view of anybody looking down. At any rate, he doubted there was even a human presence watching over Azkaban. The Ministry had always left guard duty up to the dementors, and Lord Voldemort did not think that that policy had changed recently.

Fortunately for Lord Voldemort, dementors were natural allies of dark wizards. It helped that Lord Voldemort had made an extensive study of dementors during the war, when he had approached them for assistance.

It was erroneous to assume that dementors hungered for human souls. Dementors fed on magic through happy emotions, which meant that it was nearly impossible to have a pleasant thought while in their company, as it would be sucked up the moment it tried to surface. People who had been exposed to dementors for long periods of time grew depressed, no longer having happy thoughts at all, as their minds formed a dismal defence mechanism to prevent dementors from draining their magic further.

A soul, on the other hand, gave a dementor power and made it a king among other dementors. There could not be too many dementors with souls at a time, or, like human kings were wont to do, they would go to war until only one was left victorious. Since dementors were soulless creatures, the only place they might get one was from a human. Dementors weren't much interested in mutilated souls, so the darker a wizard was, the safer he was as well.

The upshot of it all was that Lord Voldemort had next to nothing to fear from the dementors of Azkaban Fortress. Occlumency would protect him from the worst effects; though it would not stop his happy thoughts from being drained, it would also stop him from becoming unduly miserable.

After walking around three-quarters of the fortress, Lord Voldemort finally found the entrance. It was a wooden door, and, as was typical of Ministry incompetence, it lacked wards entirely and wasn't even locked. Lord Voldemort pulled it open with distaste and entered.

As soon as he did so, a pair of dementor guards slid through the wide bars of the nearby hallway and floated up to him. Lord Voldemort felt the temperature drop and fear threaten to claim his mind, but retreated behind the dull concentration of his occlumency, staving off the invasive magic. He imagined reaching his presence out, and, immediately, both dementors stopped in their tracks, drawing back their own magic.

Since dementors had no eyes, making threatening gestures at them was an exercise in futility. Instead, one had to show them what they actually could sense, namely, magic. When a dementor breathed in, it tasted the magic in the air, and it knew to be cautious of aggressive sources.

The average dementor was about as intelligent as a dog, but all dementors who were part of the same "fold" were connected to their leader, and more loosely to all other dementors. Most of the time, the leader, too, was not much cleverer, but in the case of Azkaban, all of the folds likely had at least one dementor who had consumed a human soul and all of its contents. Seeing as Azkaban held English prisoners, that meant that these dementors also understood English.

Thus, Lord Voldemort turned to the dementor on the right and said, plainly, "I'm looking for your leader." He then stretched his magic a little more outside of his body, in case the dementors got the idea of attempting to overpower him anyway.

Fortunately, they seemed to understand, and, after taking another rattling breath in his direction, the dementor on the left floated off, and Lord Voldemort got the idea that he was meant to follow. The other dementor trailed closely behind him, but Voldemort did not let it bother him much.

The prison layout was not extremely complicated. As the fortress was square, it turned out that the cells were also arranged in square formations, with narrow corridors in between for the dementors to move about in. In the centre of the tower was a stairwell with a very square and very steep staircase. The prison was lit by dim light enchantments at intervals, likely for the benefit of any human guards who came around.

The dementor behind Lord Voldemort did not follow him up to the first floor. Lord Voldemort gathered that it was responsible for patrolling the ground floor, which held the low-security inmates, probably mostly thieves and two-bit dark wizards.

As they ascended, Lord Voldemort quickly discovered that the density of dementors grew exponentially higher the farther they went. It was easy to tell, because the oppressive coldness began taking a more noticeable toll on his mind, despite the occlumency, and he began to feel despondent to the point of wanting to do absolutely nothing. But he persevered, because his rationality, which came hand-in-hand with occlumency, told him to go on. At last, they exited the stairwell at the third floor landing, and the dementor in front of him led him through a veritable swarm of dementors and into a small alcove which was full of dark mist.

Lord Voldemort made sure that he kept his magic reaching out to repel the advances of the nearby dementors; he wasn't certain his occlumency would be able to stand up to the direct effect of dementor magic.

Looking around carefully, Lord Voldemort managed to pick out the fold leader from the rest, mainly because its hood was down in a gesture of trust—it was possible to kill a dementor whose face was exposed by spearing it through its head, whereas the hood would defend from such an attack. This dementor's face was very smooth, and its lipless mouth less like a gaping hole and more like something that had been gently opened in a shadow of a smile.

Voldemort waited for it to approach before he pulled out the wooden cube that had been—or would be—the weapon that had murdered Bode. He applied the thought-bubble charm on it and handed it over to the lead dementor. The thought-bubble charm was meant to allow mute people to speak to others, but it worked just as well for dementors, who had no human vocal cords.

"Lord Voldemort," greeted the dementor in the toneless voice characteristic of the charm. "We thought you were dead. We must have been misinformed."

Lord Voldemort was unsurprised that the dementors had recognized him. It was not as if he could change the feel of his magic. Also, he was certain he was the only one who had thought of using the thought-bubble charm to communicate with them.

"Indeed, Nathanial," Lord Voldemort replied. This particular dementor had, some decades ago, consumed the soul of Nathanial Urquhart, a rather unsuccessful experimental potioneer who had managed to kill off a dozen human test subjects before the aurors had caught up with him. As dementors did not practice giving names to each other, the fold leaders Voldemort had met had taken to going by the names of the souls they had consumed, though usually the name seemed to apply just as well to the entire fold.

"Oh!" the dementors shuddered as a wave, apparently amused. "We go by Irma now. Is it not a nice name? Our last acquisition."

Suddenly, Lord Voldemort felt the depressing pressure on his mind recede, and, recognizing the dementors' gesture of diplomacy as they reigned in their magic, drew back his own as well.

"Irma, then. I was not aware of anyone sentenced to death recently," Lord Voldemort replied. He had dealt with several dementor folds before, and they had all had different personalities. This one especially liked to gossip.

"Lord Voldemort, you won't tell, will you?" Irma said teasingly, though Voldemort had the idea that the dementors had illegally Kissed whoever this Irma was, a rather serious trespass against the Ministry.

Irma continued, "We knew she was going to die so we collected her. Irma Crouch. Perhaps you know her son."

Lord Voldemort froze, and the shudder of dementor laughter that passed around him informed him that Irma was quite aware that he knew her son. As far as he knew, however, Barty Crouch Jr. had died several years ago in Azkaban. And these dementors were claiming to have Kissed his mother, who by all rights should never have set foot on the island. Irma could not possibly be lying; it would have no conceivable reason to do so.

"I will admit that I find myself perplexed," Lord Voldemort said. Irma, the fold leader, drifted closer to him.

"She came here to die," Irma explained, "so that her son could live. We were pleased by it. Husband and son left the island, and we collected Irma."

What the dementor was implying, then, was that Barty Crouch Jr., one of Lord Voldemort's most competent and loyal followers, was still alive. He did not bother asking the dementor whether it knew where he was, however; it only had Irma Crouch's memories, after all.

Instead, he merely said, "Thank you for this information."

"We are pleased to assist. The Ministry of Magic has forbidden us from increasing, but Thaddeus has done so anyway. In retaliation, the Ministry of Magic has culled Irma's numbers, and we are most displeased," Irma explained.

"I see," Lord Voldemort said, snorting at this new example of Ministry incompetence. Ministry workers were afraid to get within twenty feet of dementors and always had patroni around whenever dealing with them, which meant that they had trouble distinguishing one fold of dementors from another and often made the extremely offensive mistake of getting different folds confused.

While the Ministry was aware that dementors understood English, they had never tried to have the dementors communicate in return. It was easy to erroneously assume that dementors could not communicate; it was true that they did not appear to ever speak to each other, but that was because they could simply share thoughts. As they had no language, the best way for them to speak was using a human language and some creative magic.

During the war, the dementors had sided easily with Lord Voldemort because he allowed them to breed as much as they liked and generally left them to their own devices, which was all they really wanted, as he had discovered from speaking to them. Dementors did not have particularly great aspirations, but they did grow restless when subjected to restrictions.

Lord Voldemort noticed that the mass of dementors was shifting slightly. Irma drifted in front of him.

"Lord Voldemort is here for his servants, is he not? They are this way," it said, clearly leading the way. Voldemort followed quickly.

"Indeed. Astute as ever, Irma," he replied. The dementors laughed again.

"We are a fold with great experience. Lord Voldemort knows that. The only reasons he would come to Azkaban are to speak with us and to retrieve his friends," Irma said.

Suddenly, Lord Voldemort's somewhat pleasant mood disappeared and the world around him grew frigid. Images of a drunken Mrs. Cole from his childhood flashed across his mind, interspersed with vague nightmares of Dumbledore at last finding evidence to have him destroyed and imaginations of nothingness—death. Angrily, Lord Voldemort pulled himself together, blanking his mind and suffusing it with magic.

Anger was helpful; it was an emotion that was certainly not happy, and yet it helped one centre oneself so that the seeping depression of a dementor's aura did not become overwhelming.

The reason for the sudden influx of dementor magic was quickly made clear as a group of dementors moved against the ring that had been formed by Irma.

"Thaddeus?" Lord Voldemort presumed. A moment later, a very pale, almost white dementor floated up to the edge of Irma's fold. After a few awkward seconds, Irma passed the cube with the thought-bubble charm on it to the other dementor.

"Lord Voldemort," Thaddeus acknowledged, thin fingers curling around the cube, "I am at your service."

Unlike Irma, Thaddeus preferred to speak in the singular, and was arguably much more human-like. It had had a very long life and had consumed a large number of souls to continue prolonging its existence. Very strangely for a dementor, Thaddeus did not always travel with its fold, instead opting to operate alone sometimes, though it did have a sizeable number of compatriots, as was clear at the moment.

It was also clear that Irma and Thaddeus were still wary of each other, likely because of the grievous mistake the Ministry had made regarding their folds. Dementors did not feel more than fleeting emotions, at least, in the way humans felt them. Instead, they calculated losses and gains and acted in that respect, aided slightly by borrowed emotions from humans. It made them terribly indecisive when it came to difficult decisions. Lord Voldemort supposed Thaddeus was still waiting to see if Irma wanted some kind of compensation for the injustice that had been done.

"I am looking for my servants, in particular August Rookwood," Lord Voldemort informed Thaddeus.

"I know," Thaddeus replied, "I will take you from here. They are in my section, after all."

It was difficult to read expressions in dementors, but Lord Voldemort still got the idea that Irma was agitated, and supposed that he had missed some bit of mental communication between the dementors. Nonetheless, Irma quickly turned away, leaving Voldemort in Thaddeus's care.

Lord Voldemort and Thaddeus moved silently, side by side up the stairs.

"You have a Time Turner," was the first thing Thaddeus said to Voldemort.

Surprised, Lord Voldemort nonetheless replied, "Yes."

"Have you ever wondered how a Time Turner works?" Thaddeus asked. Before Lord Voldemort could answer, it continued, "Not how it turns time, but how it can give you the gift of information. Information out of nothing."

Information out of nothing; that was exactly what Lord Voldemort had got. Suddenly, he had received spontaneous knowledge and a spontaneous plan, all without ever doing anything.

"It seems strange, yes," Voldemort said, having not, in fact, thought about it before.

"It's a mystery," Thaddeus agreed. It then quickly inquired, "Do you know where dementors come from?"

"Of course," Lord Voldemort replied, "You come from dark emotions."

"Yes, dark emotions," repeated Thaddeus. "It is another mystery how dark emotions could have created living things like us. The mystery of life. I remember one life spent studying it with nothing to show for it but an execution for going too far. Thaddeus Throckmorton. I tell you that name because I want to remember it."

"I see," Voldemort said, uncertain how to respond.

They continued up two more flights of stairs in silence. Then, Thaddeus said, suddenly, "Do you think a dementor can become human?"

Lord Voldemort's first instinct was to laugh at the absurdity of the notion, but he paused to think. Why would it be impossible? A dementor was already alive. A human, too, was a living thing. It was still unknown how life and magic interacted. "I don't know," he finally said.

"Good answer," Thaddeus replied. "What am I, anyway? I think about it a lot. I started out like any other dementor, but then I obtained more and more human memories and lives. I would say I'm nine-tenths human. I know how to act like a human. But it isn't natural, is it?"

Lord Voldemort thought for a moment. "Does it matter?"

"Perhaps one day, humans will understand all of the mysteries," Thaddeus said. "Here we are. High-security."

There were no dementors in the vicinity, other than the fold leader Thaddeus, and Lord Voldemort supposed they had all left so as not to impede his movement.

"Thank you," he told Thaddeus.

"It is risky," it replied. "The Ministry may take notice if they all disappear."

"Who buries the dead?" Lord Voldemort asked.

"We do," Thaddeus replied. "You are suggesting we fake their deaths, then? That may also be suspicious."

"When was the last time there was an inspection?" Voldemort pressed.

"I understand," Thaddeus said. "It has been about two months. I can arrange the appropriate death dates."

Lord Voldemort nodded, and then remembered that Thaddeus had no eyes. "Good. I will take Rookwood, Dolohov, and Rabastan with me and come for the rest later." These were, incidentally, the only three who were awake and looked remotely sane.

"That is agreeable. We will also vacate this floor. There are plenty of prisoners below," Thaddeus said.

Recognizing the overture for what it was, Lord Voldemort replied, "Thank you. I will do my best to overthrow the Ministry quickly."

Thaddeus gave a shuddering rasp of laughter. "You make refreshing company, Lord Voldemort. You must visit again soon."

"I will," Lord Voldemort promised. He moved to the appropriate cells and partially vanished the bars, sending them into void-space but not destroying them, before extracting the selected Death Eaters.

"My loyal followers. I have come for you," he declared.

"Who…" whispered Rabastan Lestrange.

"Pay no mind to the disguise," Lord Voldemort said impatiently.

"My Lord?" Rabastan choked out.

"Indeed. Surely you did not believe the rumours of my demise?" Lord Voldemort murmured, though he knew for a fact that Rabastan had. It was no matter.

"Of course not, my Lord," Rabastan quickly denied, as expected. Then he deflated slightly, as if exhausted by the effort of speaking. He likely was.

Still, after some coaxing and a few cheering charms, which, although overpowered, had little effect, all three Death Eaters were able to stand, and Lord Voldemort led them down the stairs carefully after he replaced the prison bars. Thaddeus had returned the cube to him and elected not to follow.

Lord Voldemort took the same route out of the fortress as he had going in, which was to say, he walked out the front door with the three prisoners and edged around the perimeter before making his way down the rocky beach.

Security, he reflected, was actually rather terrible, though he supposed the help of the dementors did count for quite a bit. The reason nobody had escaped from Azkaban before was probably because escape was the operative word—the people imprisoned there did not need bars or the sea to keep them in, for they were trapped inside their own heads. On the other hand, breaking prisoners out was a much simpler task.

At the shore, Lord Voldemort picked a large rock at random and transfigured it into a boat, which he spelled with the impervius charm. He then assisted the three Death Eaters inside before he cast a movement spell that took them quickly away from Azkaban.

Near the edge of the wards, Lord Voldemort began casting until he managed to put a hole in the exit alarm. Satisfied, he steered the boat through and into the open sea, which remained fairly calm and glittered in the afternoon sunlight.

"Rookwood, take off your shirt," Voldemort told the man. Why had he involved Rookwood in the first place? As a Death Eater, he had been most valuable because of his position in the Department of Mysteries. Now that he was a convict, Voldemort was uncertain how he might be useful, except in sending the letter as Lord Voldemort had read it.

Weakly, Rookwood struggled with his garment, but eventually managed to pull it over his head.

Lord Voldemort took it and touched his wand to it. "_Portus,_" he said, linking the new portkey to his cottage. Contrary to common belief, a portkey could not be created to go just anywhere. In order for a location to be a valid portkey destination, it needed to have enchantments in place, usually on some present object called a "portstone," whether or not it was actually a stone, which would then be tied to a certain person's wand so that that person would be able to make portkeys there. One wand could therefore only make portkeys to one location.

Theoretically, it _was_ possible for somebody with enough motivation and imagination to simply enchant an item to transport somebody to some desired location, but nobody had ever successfully managed it without any serious mishaps, such as missing body parts that had really been torn off, and not just splinched.

Therefore, the Ministry felt that it regulated portkeys quite well by issuing permits for owning portstones and requiring experts to connect Ministry portstones to approved wands.

Unfortunately for the Ministry, Lord Voldemort was a genius. After having analysed the Malfoy Manor portstone thoroughly, he had simply recreated all of the spells and made his own stone, which he had then connected to his wand. Originally, he had kept the portstone in his pocket so that he could enchant their Dark Marks to take them directly to his location, but now he left it in his cottage.

He held out Rookwood's filthy prison garment and the three prisoners each took a handful of fabric. Then Lord Voldemort tapped it with his wand. Suddenly, he felt as if he was thrown through the air, dragged along by a hook behind his navel. They collapsed in an ungainly heap in the sitting room, whereupon Lord Voldemort quickly extricated himself and took a step back.

"You need to bathe," he told the Death Eaters. "The bathroom is in that hall, on the left. Rookwood, stay behind."

Rabastan Lestrange and Antonin Dolohov hobbled out of the room while Rookwood arranged himself into a kneeling position.

"You may rise, and sit there," Lord Voldemort said. Rookwood scrambled to his feet and then slumped onto the nearby couch. Voldemort took a seat on the opposite armchair.

He looked at the gaunt, shrivelled form of Rookwood and asked, "What do you know about Time Turners?"

To Lord Voldemort's surprise, Rookwood did not begin explaining the function of a Time Turner. Instead, he said, with admiration, "It worked." Then, as if coming to his senses, he went on, "My Lord, I don't mean to presume, but I must ask; did you come for us," he paused, coughing wetly, "because of Time Turner information?"

Lord Voldemort scrutinized the former Unspeakable's sickly form. "Time Turner information. If you reefer to knowledge granted to me by my future self, information with no origin, then yes."

"That's right. Why did you come for me, my Lord? I am useless to you," Rookwood rasped. Lord Voldemort began to wonder whether Rookwood did know something in particular about the situation.

"You delivered this… Time Turner information," he informed the man.

"So it did work. My Lord, I imagined you would be able to do anything if you had a Time Turner, using its information. Even the impossible. You have broken us out of Azkaban!" Rookwood said exultantly, ending in a fit of coughing.

"Clarify," Lord Voldemort ordered.

Rookwood looked somewhat uncomfortable, but he continued, "I imagined you would come for us, your faithful servants, if only you believed there would no risk. If it had already succeeded, there could not be any risk, my Lord."

Lord Voldemort narrowed his eyes. "What you mean to say is that the Time Turner information originated from you," he said. But there was no way Rookwood had sent a letter from Azkaban with such an elaborate ruse—of course he hadn't. They were still in the past, and Rookwood would be sending the letter soon. It was all real. The reality, then, was worse; Rookwood had imagined the information, and it had somehow become true.

"Can any wizard do this? Imagine information into reality?" Lord Voldemort demanded. Rookwood shook his head.

"No, my Lord. I do not believe so. Only those who have come in close contact with a Time Turner or," he was seized by another fit of coughing, "or the sand within."

This calmed Lord Voldemort slightly. "Go on. What other pertinent information is there about Time Turners?"

"That's all, my Lord. The rest is confirmed knowledge. I could copy the Time Turner use manual for you if I had a wand," Rookwood said. Lord Voldemort supposed that something like that would be helpful. He took Bode's wand out of his pocket and handed it to Rookwood, who took it. Some recognition lit up in his eyes.

"This belongs to Broderick Bode, it does," he murmured. Lord Voldemort conjured a piece of parchment for Rookwood, who tapped Bode's wand to it. Nothing happened. Frowning, Rookwood mumbled under his breath a few more times before finally, words blossomed on the page.

Lord Voldemort took the parchment and the wand and nodded. "You are dismissed. Take a bath and find somewhere to rest," he told Rookwood.

The man gave an awkward bow and murmured, "my Lord," before he pushed himself to his feet and limped out of the room.

Rookwood, at least, seemed mostly sane. All people dealt differently with dementors. Occlumency training helped, but long-term exposure would still erode magical power. It would take at least some months of recovery before any of the rescued Death Eaters were fit to cast spells regularly. Lord Voldemort did not doubt that the copying spell Rookwood had cast on the parchment had taxed him greatly.

Skipping over the section about rules and regulations, Lord Voldemort read over the warnings and limitations of a Time Turner. Apparently, one was advised not to let one's future self be seen directly, as it had been known to cause insanity and even unfortunate situations such as being killed by one's past self. Lord Voldemort snorted at this recommendation; it was too late for that now, at any rate.

The standard-issue Unspeakable Time Turners had twelve hours worth of sand in them, which made for twelve turns, as Lord Voldemort had assumed upon obtaining his. Each turn was one hour, and it was not possible to activate the Time Turner with fractional turns. The device would remain active for the duration of time spent in the past, and it was not possible to use it again while it was still active, which meant that going back three hours and then attempting to add two more would not work. Using another Time Turner while already in a time loop was also not advised, as there was a high chance of twisting oneself up in void-time, similar to splinching oneself in void-space during apparition, but irreversible.

Additionally, the sand required real time to pass to recharge, which meant that if he used all of the time on the Time Turner, he would have to wait at least one more real hour in order to turn it again, or twelve hours to fully recharge it. Lord Voldemort realized suddenly that this meant that he would not be able to use the Time Turner again for nearly another whole day. But in just a few more hours, he would arrive again at Lily Potter's home to explain to his past self what to do.

That was ridiculous, however, because he needed to deal with the Death Eaters he had just retrieved from Azkaban. Leaving them alone in the house for more than a day was out of the question, especially when he had not yet ascertained how sane they were and whether a stint in Azkaban had eroded any of their loyalty to him.

Lord Voldemort had expected to be able to use the Time Turner again to send another version of himself to stay with Lily Potter, but clearly that would no longer be an option. Where would he get a substitute Harry Potter?

Suddenly, an obvious idea occurred to him. The real Harry Potter would be home in a few hours. Perhaps he would do, with some coaching. Lily Potter wasn't Dumbledore, after all, and it would not be too risky.

Actually, Lord Voldemort amended, the real Harry Potter would most certainly do just fine. After all, had it not already happened that a Harry Potter had gone to Lily Potter's home and given Lord Voldemort instructions regarding the location of Broderick Bode? He'd naturally assumed that it had been himself, but what if it had not been?

A plan began to coalesce in Lord Voldemort's mind.

* * *

A/N: Thanks to everybody who read and reviewed!

I hope nobody is too offended by the liberties I took with dementors. I figured they weren't super intelligent, since they acted like animals when it came to swarming the Quidditch pitch and they're classified as non-beings. However, they also must have some way of associating with humans on an intelligent level, otherwise they couldn't have meaningfully betrayed the Ministry to ally with Voldemort. They need to be able to understand complex human ideas in order to make negotiations. Also, it is stated that dementors feed on happy emotions, not that they need human souls to survive or that souls are better than emotions. If they did, they would be better off going on a soul-sucking rampage. After all, not many wizards and witches have the ability to cast a patronus charm. So I had to figure out why they have the ability to suck out souls, and what it's for.

On the subject of Time Turner information: In PoA Harry gave himself Time Turner information in the form of the knowledge that his patronus was a stag (he cast it earlier in the book but didn't see what form it takes at that time). Even though he thought he was his father, by the time he actually needed to cast it he realized that it was himself. So he already expected to see his patronus, a stag, come out succesfully. That information came out of nowhere, as far as I can tell.


	15. All Manner of Mysteries

Note: The usual; assume that any dialogue occuring at Durmstrang is conducted in German unless otherwise indicated. I think I'll stop posting this note in the future.

* * *

Harry deposited Kolya's present into his hands in lieu of a greeting as they claimed a cabin in the ship.

"Oh yeah," said Alvin, handing Kolya a package wrapped in colourful paper with pictures of varied sweets painted on it. Kolya thanked them both for his presents before he tucked them into his trunk.

"You're not going to open them?" Harry demanded.

"Later, later," Kolya said with a smirk. They were giving him his presents now because Kolya's father was a paranoid bastard and refused to let his son's friends into the mail wards in case they caused some kind of leak. Harry found this ridiculous, as even Lord Voldemort, whom Harry had previously considered the king of paranoid bastards, had let Alvin and Kolya send him his presents for a two-day window around Christmastime.

Harry had gotten the new Magical Theory textbook from Kolya, probably as a useful joke, along with a box of expensive sweets. From Alvin, he got a shiny silver pocket watch that was apparently muggle-made.

As it had been two weeks since he had seen his friends, Harry wasted no time in catching up with them. Kolya explained that he had spent his holiday either being pestered by his two younger sisters into flying or playing with dolls, both activities which he hated, or having lessons on politics in his father's study. Alvin's Aunt Ellie had taken him on vacation to France, where he got to shake hands with the world-famous alchemist Nicolas Flamel.

"Shame about Flamel," Kolya said, frowning.

"What do you mean?" Alvin asked, shifting slightly as the ship creaked with movement. Kolya glanced at him incredulously.

"You met him, and you don't know?" he demanded. "You do know about the philosopher's stone in general, don't you?"

Alvin shrugged bemusedly. "Er, it sounds familiar," he offered. Kolya palmed his face in exasperation.

"Eternal life? Infinite wealth?" Kolya shook his head sadly, "You're hopeless. You and Harry both. Anyway," he continued, ignoring Harry's indignant protests, "The Flamels made a public statement recently that they were going to let nature run its course, and passed the philosopher's stone to their heir—my father thinks it's Albus Dumbledore, the Chief Warlock."

Harry was somewhat alarmed to hear that Dumbledore, the enemy of Lord Voldemort, had got his hands on the philosopher's stone. Whatever Kolya thought, Harry wasn't quite that ignorant. Lord Voldemort had stacks of books about the philosopher's stone in his home, and Harry had eventually become curious enough to flip through several of them.

"So they're just going to die?" Alvin asked, bringing Harry back to the conversation. Kolya nodded.

"They're old, I mean, really old, so they probably have a different outlook about life and death," he said equitably. Alvin frowned.

"I can't imagine it. Dying, I mean." he remarked. Kolya made a face.

"Don't imagine it too hard. You don't want to cast a suicide curse on accident," he admonished. Harry stared at him.

"That's possible?" he demanded. Accidentally committing suicide sounded like the stupidest way to die ever.

Alvin had a different question: "They made a curse specifically so people could commit suicide?"

Kolya scowled. "The incantation is _accio mortem_."

Harry and Alvin stared at him with wide eyes. Kolya sighed theatrically.

"I'm not even holding my wand," he pointed out. "You two are too gullible. I was just joking about casting it. It really is a spell though."

"Right, joking," Alvin repeated, giving a strained laugh. Harry snorted at himself for almost believing Kolya for a moment. Of course one could not accidentally kill oneself with a spell like that. Unless one really was very suicidal, there wouldn't be enough intent. Harry doubted that something like the suicide spell had been cast enough times for it to be possible to use with only a wand movement and incantation.

Harry had found the first few chapters of _The Art of Wand-Waving, _his new book for Magical Theory, absolutely fascinating and very informative. Now he knew what all of those pesky movements and weird incantations were for, and that his suffering Transfiguration grade was probably due to his attempts to cast spells nonverbally, which beginners weren't supposed to do for a reason.

Even though intent was the key to magic, wands and words were supposed to make spell-casting easier by utilizing symbolism, or magical memory. The more often a spell was cast in a certain way, the less intent required to cast the same spell again, which meant that inventing new spells took a lot of focused intent while casting something like _wingardium leviosa, _which had probably been cast billions of times in the history of wizards, needed only the precise pronunciation and wand movement.

Of course, a spell cast with synchronous intent and execution would then be much more powerful, but that kind of thing was for skilful and experienced wizards, not first years.

The ship ride was rather boring, especially after Alvin left the cabin about halfway through to meet his other friends from Unicorn. Kolya had elected to stretch out on the opposite bench and take a nap, leaving Harry to wallow in boredom, unable to fall asleep with the perpetual creaking and sloshing sounds that pervaded the cabin. He brought out his Magical Theory textbook and read another chapter before he tossed it back in his trunk and fiddled idly with his fingers.

When the ship arrived at last at the harbour, Harry was ecstatic to be getting off. On deck Harry spotted Alvin again, but he was with a girl Harry recognized as Gretchen Schramm, a rather stuck-up pureblood who had a grudge against Harry for no reason, or because he was a half-blood, which amounted to the same thing. The prejudice was irritating, as Harry had yet to see a definitive example of purebloods being better than anybody else.

Harry felt some hurt at the fact that Schramm and Alvin seemed to get along, despite the fact that he knew it wasn't his business whom else Alvin wanted to spend his time with. What did Harry know? Perhaps Schramm was a decent human being when interacting with people she thought were fellow purebloods.

For a moment, Harry wondered how she would react if she learned that Alvin's parents were both squibs, but the thought passed quickly, leaving him uncomfortable. He wouldn't do something despicable like that to his friend.

As Harry and Kolya prepared to go down the gangplank, a vaguely familiar older boy stumbled at the gap and toppled over the edge, narrowly missing a landing on a sharp chunk of ice and instead disappearing into the water with a great splash.

Somebody shouted, "Poliakoff!" but she sounded more exasperated than worried.

Seeing as everybody was just staring at the flailing boy, Harry gave his wand an expert swish and flick and pronounced, "_wingardium leviosa_." Nothing happened, and Harry remembered that the levitation spell was too weak to work on humans. Frustrated, Harry just gave his wand a jab in Poliakoff's direction and concentrated. He had been casting hover charms that worked on living things for ages.

That seemed to do the trick, for the boy rose up as Harry expected and was then dumped face-first onto shore. Harry didn't feel much sympathy for him, because he was sure that this Poliakoff was the same one who had fallen into the water at the beginning of the year. Harry just could not see how somebody could be clumsy enough to make such an embarrassing mistake twice.

"What's going on here?" One of the sixth year advisors demanded. He did not wait for an answer. "Keep moving! You're all blocking the way."

Harry and Kolya made it all the way down and found themselves intercepted by a smiling Poliakoff, who showed no signs of having just tripped into freezing water. Harry could barely believe that somebody incompetent enough to fall off of the gangplank like that was nonetheless able to cast warming and drying charms.

"Thank you for saving me," Poliakoff told Harry, holding out his hand. "I'm Ivan."

"Harry," said Harry, shaking the older boy's hand awkwardly as they walked towards the keep.

"Pleased to meet you," Ivan Poliakoff said, and he looked genuinely pleased, even a bit overexcited. Harry almost thought that Ivan recognized him; he supposed the older boy had probably seen him around before.

Ivan then introduced himself to Kolya, who said, frostily, "Mykola Kalashnik," before quickly pulling Harry ahead so that Ivan was lost in the crowd behind them.

"What is it?" Harry asked crossly as soon as they slowed to a sedate enough pace that he could properly breathe. "Do you know him or something?"

Kolya nodded. "I've heard of him. Listen, you shouldn't associate with Poliakoff. His family is… very dark. It's just asking for trouble."

Harry regarded his friend sceptically. He had honestly been under the impression that Kolya's family could also be called "dark." They still adhered to traditional practices of lordship and vassalage, and anyway, wasn't Kolya the one who had previously been extolling the virtues of taking Dark Arts?

Kolya seemed to read his mind, for he insisted, "I don't mean the simple things you learn in class for duelling and the like. Poliakoff's father is still in prison for murdering twenty muggles for some ritual. His soul was so black even dementors refused to suck it out!"

At this piece of information, Harry was somewhat aghast, but he firmly shook his head. "That's his father, though. He's just a student, like us. At least give him a chance."

After a long moment of staring, Kolya nodded reluctantly. "Just be careful," he said. Harry smiled at him.

"I will." He did not want to admit it to Kolya and Alvin, both his good friends, but even with them around he felt lonely sometimes. Kolya often spent time with Sergey Savchenko and his circle of sixth and seventh years, citing the fact that they would be out of Durmstrang soon, whereas he had almost seven more years to go with Harry. Harry felt awkward around the outgoing group of Ukrainians, as he knew he didn't really belong.

Alvin, similarly, had his own friends from Unicorn, half of whom were uppity purebloods who couldn't tolerate Harry. There was still Harry's roommate, Lothar, but apart from getting help on assignments, and talking about food, Harry had not really connected well with the second year.

Now that somebody else was making a friendly overture to him, Harry didn't want to waste the opportunity on account of prejudice. Besides, Ivan Poliakoff seemed good-natured enough, if clumsy. If he turned out to be another blood-purist, Harry could just turn around and walk the other way. There was no reason not to at least try to make friends.

Harry was also a little bit annoyed at Kolya for trying to dictate with whom he associated. He knew that his friend was only concerned for him, but it seemed unreasonable to judge somebody for the deeds of his father, something he couldn't control. Wasn't that just the same as all of those purebloods who thought Harry was inferior because of his blood status?

Making his way back through the crowd of students, he luckily managed to find Ivan again. The boy was leaning against a tree, and the top button of his robe had come undone at some point, revealing his dirt-stained collar and giving him a sloppy, flustered look. Harry got the idea that Ivan had recently tripped.

"Harry!" Ivan greeted cheerfully.

Harry looked the older boy over. He certainly seemed nice enough, even if Harry did see some troubling evidence of him being a dark wizard. Ivan's skin was extremely pale and looked paper-thin, so much that Harry could see the blue web of veins in his face. Sickly pallor was one of the first indicators of an unhealthy level of dark magic use. At least his eyes weren't red. Harry took that as a good sign.

"Hello," he said. "Sorry about earlier. My friend wanted to, er, tell me something. Want to walk with me?"

Ivan's smile waned slightly, and he looked uncomfortable. "I was going to wait for the crowd to thin a bit," he said. "My vision isn't very good."

Harry tapped the side of his round frames, "Oh? But you don't have spectacles."

Suddenly, Ivan looked quite uncertain, and Harry wondered if he had said something wrong. But the other boy at last nodded and said, "The damage is from a curse," he explained. "It cannot be broken, and glasses would not help."

"Oh," was all Harry could say. Somehow, he could tell that Ivan didn't want any pity. He supposed that the curse was the reason why Ivan was so clumsy. Harry was half-blind without his glasses, so he knew what it was like to be unable to see clearly.

"I wanted to have my eyes removed so I could get enchanted substitutes, but they were too expensive," Ivan continued. The thought of eye-removal evoked rather unpleasant images in Harry's mind, and he shuddered. Ivan didn't seem to notice his discomfort. "Hospitals only pay for prosthetic eyes for blind people, and even then only for ordinary vision."

"What did you want instead of ordinary vision?" Harry asked, though he found the topic somewhat unsettling.

Ivan was smiling again, however. "Oh, false eyes can do all sorts of things. Full range movement, the ability to see through solid objects and to see outside of the normal human light range, enhanced night vision, even detect magic! Of course an eye like that would be worth a fortune."

He sounded wistful. Harry would admit that these extra features sounded nice, but the idea of having a false eye was still rather odd to him. "Can you get those enchantments on normal glasses?" he wondered aloud.

"Oh yes, most of them," Ivan confirmed, "but that costs about as much. You can cast temporary charms like that yourself, though. If you're interested, I know there are some books in the library about it. Oh, we'd better get going before we're late for dinner."

By now, there were only a few stragglers still getting off the ship, so Harry and Ivan set off briskly towards the keep. Soon they were at the incredibly narrow path that cut up the side of the cliff face, and Harry felt some trepidation as he struggled to keep up with Ivan's longer stride. How he wished they could simply fly up! But he didn't have a broom, and somehow he did not think that unassisted flight was something he was supposed to be able to do.

Ivan noticed his tiredness and gave him a small smile as he slowed down. "I can teach you how to make your body think it is lighter. Like the feather-light charm, yes? But it takes a lot of focus."

Harry thought about it. Feather-light charms, like levitation charms, didn't work on humans or heavily magical objects because they didn't involve enough magic to counteract the natural inclination of the original magic to resist. But if Harry could go as far as fly, what was to say he couldn't lighten himself?

"Actually, I think I might have an idea of how to do it," he told Ivan. As if he were about to fly, Harry concentrated on what he saw and how it related to his body. He then thought about what he felt, and imagined being springier and lighter on his feet. With the imagined sensation firmly in mind, he began to walk, with full expectation that he would feel exactly the way he wanted to feel.

"Looks like it worked," Ivan said, sounding impressed. "You are very good at this kind of magic. How are you at transfiguration?"

The question seemed rather random to Harry, but he answered anyway, "All right, I guess. I have an A in the class," he said, keeping one eye on his feet to make sure he did not stumble. Ivan nodded thoughtfully.

"Well, that is better than me. I have an S," he replied.

Harry turned to stare at him, forgetting his feet. "Schrecklich?" he repeated, not quite able to believe that the other boy, who seemed quite knowledgeable about magic, could be so… well, dreadful, at an entire subject. Ivan nodded seriously.

"I can barely cast the spells. You know how the Transfiguration grade is. Almost completely practical. Perhaps you can help me." he said.

Harry shook his head, "But you're in," he looked uncertainly at Ivan again, and took a guess, "fourth year or something, and I'm just a first year."

Ivan only smiled at him, "You hovered me out of the sea," he pointed out.

Harry was still sceptical, especially since hovering was probably some kind of charm, not a transfiguration, and Ivan did not insist further. They walked along the precarious path in silence for a few minutes, during which Harry found that levitating himself slightly might give his legs a rest, but made him feel mentally exhausted, and so ceased.

Harry turned to Ivan again as something occurred to him, "Why can't you cast transfiguration spells anyway? You seem to be fine at other ones."

Ivan gave a him a long, unreadable look, before he asked, "Do you know a lot of magical theory?"

"I'm in the class," Harry replied. Ivan nodded.

"I don't know what they teach in that class, but probably not about all the ways to focus intent. Let's just say I'm not very good at exercising my willpower on magic," he said. Harry frowned. He himself was not much good at it, which was why he had been struggling slightly in Transfiguration, but the wand movements had definitely helped.

"Why don't you just work on wand movements and pronunciation?" Harry pressed. After living with Lord Voldemort for years, he knew when people weren't telling him things, and right now, Ivan was definitely trying to hedge around something.

"Er, well, I want to actually be good at transfiguration, you know?" Ivan answered. "Pre-formulated transfigurations aren't really going to help me a lot."

Harry still felt like he was missing something, but nodded along, as he couldn't really come up with a better explanation. The transfigurations that students learned in class, like matchstick to needle and feather to string, weren't exactly useful in everyday life. They were just for accustoming people to that kind of magic. Real transfiguration masters could transfigure anything into anything else or conjure objects with just a thought.

Normal wizards didn't need to be transfiguration masters, though, and if Ivan was already bad at transfiguration, it seemed silly for him to set such a difficult goal when he surely had other things he was actually good at.

Harry glanced at him contemplatively. "Ivan, which class do you have the highest marks in? Mine is Defence." It was a bit of an odd inquiry, but he didn't want Ivan to weasel out of the question, which he could have had Harry asked after his favourite instead. Ivan could always lie, but Harry didn't think he would have a reason to.

"Dark Arts," said Ivan, after a moment, "but I like, er, Herbology more. What's your favourite class?"

Even Harry thought that that had been a rather flimsy subject change. He went along with it, however, and answered, "Magical Theory ties with Defence. They're both very interesting."

At this point, they finally made it to the top of the cliff, and Harry did a very tired victory dance, which consisted of raising his arms in the air and spinning around briefly. Ivan looked on with some amusement, but said nothing.

As they continued towards the keep in silence, Harry thought about his new acquaintance. Perhaps Kolya had been right about Ivan and dark magic, but the boy honestly acted quite normal and didn't seem like a bad person.

Harry remembered that he hadn't yet revealed to Ivan that he was a half-blood. He supposed he had better do it soon before he got too attached. Being rejected by somebody he considered a friend would be much worse than getting the same treatment from total strangers.

There was also the matter of how Ivan could be good at dark magic and dreadful (literally) at transfiguration. Harry knew that they were different branches of magic, but surely there wasn't that big of a disparity between them? Harry supposed that he didn't know all that much about magic, having only had one term of Magical Theory, and decided to contemplate Ivan's imbalance of skill later.

After checking in with Healer Wei, who had everybody's schedules again, they headed to the dining hall, where Ivan bade Harry good night as he veered off to the Grindylow table, leaving Harry to head to a table at the other side of the hall where the Demiguise students were seated. Kolya spotted him and moved to the side to give him space.

"Well? How was Poliakoff?" Kolya asked. Harry hummed.

"All right," he finally said. "I suppose you're right that he's good at dark magic, but that doesn't have to mean anything. You're the one who's always on about the English and their view of dark arts, anyway. Well I'm English, and he seems like a good person."

Kolya frowned, but shrugged. "I suppose so."

"Hey, are you talking about Ivan Poliakoff?" asked an older girl. She had a vaguely familiar Romanian accent. Harry thought her name was Clarisse, but he couldn't be certain, as he did not remember ever having spoken to her directly before.

"Er, yes," he told her, wondering why she cared, or why she had been eavesdropping in the first place.

"He fell into the harbour again today, didn't he?" she asked.

"He did. Harry here fished him out," Kolya said. The girl turned to Harry with a contemplative look.

"You're a second year?" she murmured, "That's impressive."

Harry shook his head and corrected her, "First year."

The girl seemed quite surprised at that and made a strange, aborted sound at the back of her throat. "Thought you seemed a bit scrawny," she finally said. "Good on you. Though I was going to let him stew a little down there so he'd learn his lesson… well, there's always next time."

Harry stared at her oddly, uncertain whether she was Ivan's friend or just some kind of bully. He settled on saying something neutral. "I thought his vision was bad—I mean, that he tripped because of it."

The girl hummed. "Is it really? I always thought he was just doing it for attention."

Harry thought that that was rather insensitive of her, but refrained from saying anything, not on account of politeness, but because he had realized that he could not be sure whether Ivan had been telling him the truth. An unbreakable curse on his eyes? It sounded a bit far-fetched, but of course not impossible when it came to magic. But why would Ivan lie?

Then again, the girl had no reason to lie either, especially when she was not even saying anything outright; she had clearly implied, however, that Ivan had fallen into the water multiple times before, most likely more than the two instances Harry had witnessed. Even impaired vision was a poor excuse for that kind of habitual clumsiness.

"Maybe he should invest in glasses," Kolya said. Harry had the feeling that his friend was still feeling uncharitable toward Ivan.

Wondering whether he had a right to say anything, and then deciding that Ivan's curse, if it existed, probably was not a secret since he had told Harry, practically a total stranger, about it, Harry explained, "He told me there's some unbreakable curse on his eyes."

"Huh. Does something like that really exist?" asked the girl. "How did he even get hit by it?"

"It probably exists," Kolya said. "If you can think of it, somebody else has already thought of it. My father told me that about magic."

The girl seemed impressed by this pronouncement. "That's probably true. There's no reason he would make up something like that anyway. He's insane but he's not an idiot."

Harry decided to voice something he had been wondering for quite awhile now, "How do you know him anyway? Are you friends or something?"

This question elicited a laugh. The girl shook her head. "Nothing like that. We're rivals."

"Rivals," Harry repeated, trying not to sound sceptical. The girl seemed to pick up on his doubt anyway.

"You know, we insult each other whenever we meet and compete in class. I'm three points behind," she grumbled, "got to catch up."

Remembering the fact that Ivan had a Schrecklich in Transfiguration, Harry wondered what she was even talking about. He asked.

"Dark Arts, obviously. Poliakoff's rubbish at everything else." She sounded smug.

"He really is good at dark magic, then?" Harry asked. Beside him, Kolya shot him an exasperated look that he interpreted to mean, "Obviously."

"Top of sixth year," the girl replied sourly. At this, Harry tried to catch another glimpse of Ivan, but his view was blocked by the five tables separating them. Ivan definitely hadn't looked sixteen. Then he remembered that Dark Arts was an elective, and it was entirely possible—probable, actually—that Ivan had been moved up a few years because of his skill.

"Hey," the girl said thoughtfully, startling Harry from his contemplation, "you must be pretty good at magic. You should take over for me as his rival after I finish school. Having a rival keeps you sharp, you know."

"Er, right," Harry said. The idea seemed a bit outlandish.

"Even the advisor thinks you're a genius," Kolya told him. "You should stop denying it."

"I'm not a genius," Harry protested automatically, and flushed when he realized what he'd said. Then he frowned, and added, more firmly, "Really, I'm not."

He knew he was right, and he suspected that Kolya knew as well, and just enjoyed teasing him incessantly. Harry was good at some kinds of magic, but it was nothing older students couldn't pull off with ease, and he wasn't learning any new tricks. If anybody was a genius, it was Kolya, who seemed to know everything there was to know and pass exams without so much as opening a book.

Then Harry really noticed what Kolya had said, and felt his face heating up again. The girl was one of Demiguise's sixth year student advisors. He became somewhat more certain that she was named Clarisse, and felt a little worse about not being positive. He did at least know that the male advisor was a fair-haired boy named Julian, who was sitting at the other end of the long table.

"So, I don't even know your name. Sorry," said the girl who was probably Clarisse. Harry felt a bit better at that.

"Harry Branch," he replied, proud that he had managed not to stutter his last name. The thought brought back to mind the troubling possibility that Nate knew who he was. He had gone the whole of the last weeks of fall term and the winter holidays without anything else unusual happening to him, and Harry had almost forgotten about the whole "Mr. Potter" business.

Except he could not forget, not when it floated around the back of his mind, niggling at him at the worst times. If he left it alone, he risked making everything worse, Harry knew, but it seemed like it was already too late to do anything about it. It wasn't as if he could tell Lord Voldemort now, not after more than a month of silence. Harry hated himself and his dubious decision-making abilities sometimes.

"Clarissa Ionescu," offered the girl who was apparently not Clarisse, but actually Clarissa. Harry had been close, at least. He did not think it would be appropriate here to say something like, "Nice to meet you," seeing as they had been living in the same tower for the past term.

He was saved from having to think of a suitable response when at the staff table, Professor Karkaroff stood up and raised his wand, sending a cracking noise echoing through the hall and silencing the students, who all turned to look up at him.

He coughed to clear his throat, "The rector has an announcement to make."

Sure enough, black smoke began billowing about the empty, raised chair at the centre of the table, before it coalesced into Nate's familiar hooded form. Harry suddenly had the crazy idea that somebody could easily impersonate the rector, seeing as he always wore a generic cloak, but he quickly brushed the thought aside. There had to be wards against that kind of thing, even if Nate was a projection spell.

"Ah, hello everyone, and welcome back! I know it is a bit unorthodox to be making an announcement during dinner like this, but I didn't want to raise too much of a fuss," Nate began. Harry thought on the contrary that Nate was exactly making a fuss through his "unorthodox" action. "I only wanted to let everybody know that this will be my last term as rector, after which I will enter a peaceful retirement, if all goes according to plan. That is all."

Judging by the shocked expressions that graced the faces of many professors, including the deputy rector, Karkaroff, Nate had not bothered telling anyone else about his decision until now. Harry thought that that was a bit odd. Whispers broke out around the hall.

"I wonder who's going to be rector after him. I hope it's not Karkaroff," Clarissa said.

There was a rather angry, brooding expression on the previously cheerful girl's face. "What's wrong with Karkaroff?" Harry asked.

"He's not much of a teacher," Clarissa said vaguely, "so he probably wouldn't be a good rector." Harry thought that that was a rather flimsy concern for the level of malice that had laced her tone as she spoke the name. Perhaps Karkaroff had done something to her.

"If he's not a good teacher, Sturmbecher probably won't choose him," Kolya pointed out.

"I suppose," Clarissa replied, though she sounded unconvinced.

Harry frowned. "Why is he the deputy rector? I mean, does that mean Nate chose him, or is there a magical thing for that too?"

"The rector does choose the deputy," Kolya confirmed, "so he must have seen something in Professor Karkaroff."

Harry didn't know much about Karkaroff either way except that he seemed perpetually grumpy, so refrained from making any judgment.

"You, Mykola," Clarissa said, "You're from an old family, aren't you?"

Kolya nodded, "Yes. My father is a lord of wizards," he replied.

"You must know about Karkaroff, then," Clarissa continued.

At this, Kolya frowned. "Know what about Karkaroff?"

Harry, for his part, wondered how the age of Kolya's family name had anything to do with knowledge about Karkaroff, who Harry did not think was any kind of lord. Why would a lord be working at a school, after all?

"Know who's giving him asylum," Clarissa explained. Kolya shook his head.

"I could ask my father, if you are really curious," he offered.

"That would be good of you," Clarissa agreed.

"Why does he need asylum?" Harry asked, tired of having no idea what was going on.

"I can't believe you're English and you don't even know," Kolya said, before actually explaining, "He betrayed Lord Voldemort. Oh, don't be like that. Englishmen, honestly."

"Sorry," Harry mumbled. He had jumped at the mention of Lord Voldemort, though he doubted it was for the reason Kolya had assumed.

Harry supposed he really needed to look more into the history of the Death Eaters. Perhaps that would give him a better insight into his own past as well. He mentally added that to the list of things he needed to do. Looking up again at Karkaroff, he tried to observe the man more closely, but he looked the same as usual—stern and proud. He certainly did not seem like a traitor.

At this point, the food on the table disappeared, and Clarissa stood up. "Everyone, queue up and follow me!" she called. The other advisor, Julian, trailed behind as the entirety of Demiguise's students clattered out of their seats and bustled about until they managed to form a somewhat straight line. They waited for Unicorn and Dragon to leave the hall before Clarissa indicated that it was Demiguise's turn.

They veered off after the reaching the second floor so that they could switch to the staircase wrapping around the inner perimeter of the keep, which led to the West Tower in which the smaller Abstract Tower was contained. Halfway up the narrow spiral staircase of the main tower, Clarissa stopped and scrutinized the wall before she gave it a strong kick.

The brick she had struck shivered slightly, and then a door appeared. "Everyone remember, it's the fourth brick up and six to the right of the left wall this time. Got that?" She waited for everyone to mumble some kind of assent, before she nodded, "Good."

She opened the door and entered, holding it so that the rest of the students could file inside. Julian, who was at the end of the line making sure no one got left behind, entered last and shut the door behind him, sealing the entrance again.

The students dispersed, and Harry headed up to his room, too tired to want to socialise in the common area. He reviewed in his head all of the things he still needed to do as he cast freshening charms on himself in preparation for bed.

He had to finish up the last of his Charms homework at some point. It was only reading, and he did not have Charms until the second day, so he would worry about that tomorrow.

When he found some free time he would need to find Ivan Poliakoff again and perhaps get to know the older boy better. How exactly he would go about looking for Ivan he did not know, as he had no idea where the Grindylow dormitories were, nor did he know Ivan's schedule, though he could probably ask somebody who was in sixth year Dark Arts—Clarissa, even—when it was.

Or perhaps he could wait in the library. With luck, Ivan would think of the same thing. Harry needed to check out some history books in the library anyway so he could get a better idea of what had happened during the British dark war with the Death Eaters, and perhaps find a reason why Lord Voldemort had decided to "disappear."

And then there was Nate, who was also going to pull a disappearing act soon. Harry supposed he needed to focus more on his research about the rector. Once Nate retired, he would likely become inaccessible.

Harry supposed that that would not necessarily be a bad thing. Once Nate retired, he wouldn't have to worry about the man anymore. Then again, it was still disturbing that Nate knew his name was Potter. Harry had no idea what to make of it, and his own confusion unsettled him. Could he really leave something like that hanging? What if it resulted in a catastrophe, and Lord Voldemort found out?

The thought made Harry grimace. If he at least discovered who Nate was, perhaps he could get leverage over the man. If Nate went to such lengths to conceal his identity, chances were he had a real reason to do so and would not want it to be revealed. But the idea of blackmailing his headmaster sounded absurd and dangerous even in Harry's head, so something like that would probably be a last resort.

The problem was, simply, that Harry had hit a dead end. He had dug up everything he could find that wasn't rumour or hearsay, and the rumour and hearsay besides. All of it was written up in his journal, which he stashed at the bottom of his sock drawer, not that it was really incriminating in any way.

A lot of people, including Lothar, who was most likely to find the journal, already knew about Harry's curiosity about (or obsession with, as Alvin would put it) the rector.

The only hint Harry had found as to who Nate might be seemed impossible. It was more likely that Nate's real identity was somebody he had never heard of, which made it even more difficult to find out who he was.

But if Harry had never heard of him, chances were he was not particularly famous. So why would he have to hide his face?

Harry still remembered Nate's "welcome to Durmstrang" speech. Most of the finer points eluded him, but he recalled several things, like the way the man had seeped out of the giant crack in the middle of the wall that served as one of the lines in Grindelwald's insignia, the way he had joked about Grindelwald, neither fearing nor disrespecting the name, and finally, the fact that the speech had been draft number fifty-something; Harry had forgotten whether it was fifty-three or four.

This year was only Nate's forty-fifth as rector. Harry allowed that Nate might have written seven or eight drafts before he ever gave a speech, but he also had the idea that the information was meant to have been another joke, like "this is how many times I've had to say the exact same thing." It seemed like Nate's style, anyhow.

But if it really had been fifty-four years that Nate had actually been the rector, assuming Nate had not been making up numbers—if Nate was not a different person at all but the same as the previous rector of Durmstrang, then it would fit perfectly. Except for one giant problem.

The previous rector of Durmstrang had been Grindelwald himself. And Grindelwald was in prison.

It made sense, though, said the conspiracy-loving part of Harry's brain. The shadowy Nate had appeared to take up Grindelwald's place as soon as the dark lord had been shut up in Nurmengard.

The rational, intelligent part of Harry's brain said that obviously, Durmstrang had needed a new rector at that point, so somebody had to have taken the position.

However, Harry argued to himself, it was awfully convenient that Nate had never set a corporeal foot in Durmstrang as its rector, always using a projection spell, always hiding his face. If he were Grindelwald, then everything would make sense, except the part where it should have been impossible for Grindelwald to cast magic like that while imprisoned in Nurmengard.

Harry had checked; the prison had been built as a "perfect reform prison," so that all of the prisoners were kept in solitary confinement in magically reinforced cells except when undergoing "_Bearbeitung_." What exactly "processing" was supposed to mean in this context, Harry did not know, but it was probably a euphemism for torture of some kind.

At any rate, Grindelwald was just shut up in the prison, and not being "processed," which meant that he was in his cell all the time. And since he had been an expert on magic, he had designed the cells to suck a large amount of magic out of a person at all times to power the wards, leaving prisoners at the level of squibs, and increasing the strength of the enchantments keeping them inside.

All the research Harry had done about wizarding prisons said essentially the same thing: something had to be around to suck out or inhibit magic. Otherwise, no wards would be good enough to prevent the escape of the truly determined wizard. And Nurmengard was listed as the most thorough of them all when it came to containment, even surpassing Azkaban.

So there was no way Grindelwald could cast the projection spell at all, let alone as often as Nate did, across such a great distance and imagining himself in a hooded cloak, for he was supposed to be wandless and possess about as much magic as a particularly wretched squib.

Still, Harry acknowledged that this was Grindelwald he was talking about, and Grindelwald's prison Nurmengard. Surely it was not beyond possibility for the dark lord to have engineered a loophole for himself in case of defeat? But Harry also could not believe that the authorities had agreed to shut Grindelwald up in Nurmengard without first checking it to make sure it really was secure.

Since the slight possibility that Nate was Grindelwald remained, Harry would just need to think of some better way to prove or disprove the man's identity. Perhaps the false name could be of value. Why Nathan the Wise? It sounded like some sort of flippant joke, but it was better than nothing. Could it possibly hint that Nate's real name was actually Nathan, or was that unlikely?

Groaning, Harry jumped backwards and collapsed onto his bed with a great exhalation of annoyance. He knew now that the rector may or may not be Grindelwald, and possibly knew that he was Harry Potter.

What did that mean? Grindelwald used to be a dark lord, but Harry did not think that he really qualified as competition for Lord Voldemort anyway. Right now, Nate was just the headmaster of a school, and was rarely around anyway. Grindelwald had been defeated ages ago by Dumbledore.

But why would Grindelwald be interested in Harry Potter at all? Harry doubted that Nate would have managed to figure out that his name was "Potter" on accident; Harry had actually been trying to keep it a secret, after all, and was certain that he had not slipped up before that point.

There was still the possibility that Nate had not recognized him and had coincidentally called him "Potter," but since there was no guarantee that this was the case, and it seemed unlikely anyway, Harry knew he had to assume that Nate had some kind of interest in him, as ignoring the problem, extant or not, was probably not a good idea.

What kind of person would be interested in Harry Potter anyway? Harry could not think of anybody, other than Lord Voldemort himself. Nobody else even knew that he was alive.

Actually, he amended, people at Hogwarts knew that he was alive, because Harry Potter was attending Hogwarts. But that was irrelevant. Why would somebody be looking for Harry Potter at Durmstrang? The fact that that somebody was the rector himself was further baffling.

Unable to make heads or tails of anything, Harry sighed deeply and rolled over, shutting his eyes tiredly. Deciding to forego taking a shower—he could do it the next morning, after all—he changed out of his robes and tucked himself properly into the bed. Nothing had happened to him yet, so waiting a day or a week would probably be safe, and it certainly would not do to lose sleep over the matter.

Harry stared blankly at the canopy of his four-poster and went over his list again. During his first free period tomorrow he would go to the library to look through some history books or search for information about "Nathan der Weise," and possibly wait for Ivan. His mind wandered.

Clarissa, he reminded himself vaguely. He ought to ask Clarissa about Ivan's schedule. And he had to tell Ivan that he was half-blood too. He hoped the other boy wasn't a blood-purist. What had Kolya really meant about the Poliakoff family being dark, anyway? "Dark," was such a nebulous sort of word. People used it for everything they didn't like on top of all of its official definitions.

Perhaps, Harry thought as he drifted off, he should check out a dictionary as well.

* * *

A/N: Ugh yeah, sorry about the wait. I was having writer's block, and as a result, I'm not too pleased with this chapter, mainly on account of the fact that nothing happens in it. I'm trying to go for less thinking, more action, but it is not working out for me. Oh well.

A thank you to everybody who has read and reviewed! Also, somebody pointed out that my paragraphs can get long and painful to look at. With that in mind, I have tried to keep paragraphs short by breaking them at the first available opportunity, but as I write super long sentences, I am not certain if it has made much of a difference. Please offer an opinion on this matter, if you have one either way.


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